your heart, in exchange for mine
by nightofowls
Summary: When Harry rashly vows to retrieve a fallen star in order to win the heart of his beloved, Cho, he finds himself in the company of the mercurial Draco, venturing across foreign realms with witches, royalty, and hunters alike on their tail. He did not sign up for this. Stardust AU. H/D
1. gathering roots in the undergrowth

**Disclaimer :** I do not own any aspect of J.K. Rowling's _Harry Potter_ franchise, nor do I own any aspect of Neil Gaiman's _Stardust_. Basically none of this is of my creation, but many fantasy elements I have twisted and altered only for use in the story. I apologize beforehand. **  
AN :** I'm incredibly nervous posting anything remotely related to _Harry Potter_ , since this is my first time, and I haven't written anything in _ages._ I guess my excuse is: (1) I tried, and (2) this is just a dump for any random idea that pops into my head.  
Also, as I do realize that there are other Stardust!AU works out there (you should check them out, they're very nice), I shall say now that I have no intention of copying any elements of anyone else's work, so please be aware that there are definitely similarities! But I'll try to add more original content as well. **  
Warnings/Other :** Rated _M_ for bad language and darker themes later on. Also, the characters are kind of OOC - my apologies. This Stardust AU will have book references, but'll probably follow the movie plot more. Also, this is my attempt to stick to a slow burn. I have no idea how it will work out, but I hope you'll bear with me! Much love.  
 **Summary :** When Harry makes a rash promise to retrieve a fallen star in order to win the heart of his love, Cho, he finds himself in the company of a temperamental blonde boy, venturing across foreign realms with witches, royalty, and hunters alike on their tail. He did _not_ sign up for this. Stardust AU. Draco/Harry

* * *

 **Your Heart in Exchange for Mine**

 **by nightofowls**

Are we human because we gaze at the stars,  
or do we gaze at them because we are human?

― Neil Gaiman, _Stardust_

* * *

 _part 1: gathering roots in the undergrowth_

The village of Little Whinging, Surrey was a quaint little village. For centuries it stood in solitude, a dash of grey amidst dappling undergrowth and woodland. What lay north of Little Whinging was unknown to most, for it was sequestered to the mainland by a single stone wall―an unimpressive structure, weathered by centuries of rain and shine, built from huge hunks of stone and running for miles and miles―so many so that not one had ever traversed its entire length and discovered where its ends lay.

Little Whinging was a _very_ normal village, and many of its inhabitants were proud to say that, thank you very much.

Said inhabitants were as grey as the wall that lined its upper borders and just as drably dressed. Some were snobby, uppity, and self-righteous in their own manner; others were kind and mild-mannered and soft in the eyes. All in all, the folk of Little Whinging were very normal, very normal indeed. Very rarely did outsiders intrude on the calm provincial sanctity of the place, and when they did their appearances often disturbed the town for days on end, for that was simply how much peculiarity the town lacked. There was only one road out of the village, a long, winding path so rarely taken that it had been beaten down and sun-baked and dusty for years, and was only wide enough for one traveler's load. If one took the road down south, one would eventually end up near London, after a day or two's journey.

To the north was only the wall. On the outskirts of the village was the meadow, and all the villagers knew that lay beyond the wall was another meadow, which on a rare occasion bloomed with daisies on a hotter summer's night, and a copse of dense forest. That was it. That was all they had ever been told, and hence was all they had ever accepted.

Needless to say, ignorance is bliss. And the nice, normal people of Little Whinging, with their plain ways and extra-ordinary lives, were blissfully unaware of whatever lay beyond the wall. So it had been for years.

The sparse few on this side of the wall who were privy to the truth knew that what lay on the other side of the wall, beyond the greenery, was in fact another realm altogether. If you had ventured through the hole in the wall, past the vast undergrowth and the trees, you would venture into the realm of Grimmauld, which is an entirely separate world unto itself.

Grimmauld was, essentially, a world of magic. It is a world of love and war and hope, a realm of the fae and other creature folk, and fantasies of kinds unimaginable. In Grimmauld, shadows came to life and people rode dragons rather than fought with them. Hypothetically, if you were to cross the wall, through the meadow on the other side, and pass through the dense thickery of the forest, you would find yourself atop a hillock overlooking Diagon Alley, a vibrant marketplace brimming with wonders unknown to our world and filled with anything you could ever dream of. That was the closest hub of Grimmauld to the human world that there is―and even so, for centuries, barely a soul knew about the existence of Grimmauld.

After all, if you told anybody about a magical world just beyond your grasp, just past the plain meadow and the even plainer trees on the other side of the wall, who would believe you?

The only way to access Grimmauld from the human world―or, rather, the plain and ugly world of the mundane―was the bridge in the gap in the wall, which was guarded on a daily basis by a taciturn old man named Argus Filch with more wrinkles and limp, stringy brown hair that anything else, who had been posted by the gap in the wall for as long as most anyone could remember. He was a grouchy old soul whose unwavering persistence to stand guard by the wall, lest some naughty youngsters made to trespass, kept him sitting on his rickety old stool with his disgustingly mangy cat Ms. Norris and his small triangular sandwiches through rain and shine, sleet and hail, and more. His determination to keep to his duty was one that was unparalleled elsewhere: keep any and all people away from the gap in the wall, at all costs. No exceptions.

So it was. So it had been for centuries.

Until, one day, everything changed.

* * *

Life was good for James Potter.

That's right: at the ripe age of eighteen, on the burgeoning of adulthood, James Potter, son of Lord Fleamont and and Lady Euphemia Potter, was living in the prime of his time, so to speak. His father was to pass on the family business to him, and so far he'd led a reputable lifetime of experience idling and wreaking havoc around town―in fact, his recent accomplishments in Quidditch had gained him widespread recognition among his peers and had secured him a relatively lucrative position as a Chaser for a renowned team. He was surrounded by his friends and family and all that was familiar, and was a cheery, likable young man with a keen eye. His pleasant brown eyes and easy smile turned several heads as he entered adulthood, and, while he had yet to settle for one particular lover, he was as happy as could be, marauding about the place with his ever-faithful pals.

Needless to say, life was good. In fact, all was _swell_ for James Potter.

Except that it wasn't―not completely. For let it be said that James Potter was a frightfully curious soul with an eye for adventure and trouble.

Lately, he had begun feeling an ache in his bones. His parents, for all their love and pride, had begun hounding him with matchmaking and meddling with his romantic―or lack thereof―affairs. More and more often did he find himself trudging home well into the eve, mud tracking on the marble steps, to twin frowns over how he had skived off _another_ meeting with some lord or count's single, available daughter. Nowadays, as he stepped ever closer to adulthood, even his usual routines with his closest friends occasionally found his mind wandering off.

Much to the consternation of his closest friends, Sirius and Remus, James Potter felt _unfulfilled._

He was restless. He craved something intangible, a concept that he could never fully grasp. He couldn't settle down just yet; the mere thought of doing so in the near future and living through the same routine every day for the rest of his life unerringly unsettled him. He needed _more_. He yearned for adventure, a challenge, a _change_. For once, he itched to do something so completely unthinkable and wild his life would be forever changed, if only for a night.

When nighttime fell and all was quiet, James would clamber out his bedroom window onto the roof and lie on his back and gaze at the endless sea of stars unfurled out before him, and he would dream of possibility. And oftentimes, he would find his eyes drawn to the remote silhouette of the wall he could make out on clearer eves, and swore he could see the faintest outline of _something_ beyond the rolling hills. But what could possibly lie beyond Grimmauld?

The question plagued his mind. _What, possibly, indeed?_

Fresh ideas came bursting into his mind whenever he thought of what might lie beyond the wall. Another world, like his own? A civilization, isolated entirely? A lost people, perhaps? The possibilities were endless, and the further he was bogged down by meddlesome daily affairs, the more the thought beckoned to him, so much so that eventually he spent most of his days with a glazed look, feverish and wild, in his eyes.

Finally, one day, the gods above gave in to his dogged pursuit of the unknown, and granted his wish.

By chance, as dusk fell and supper was cleared off the table one fine midsummer's evening, James informed his mother that he was going out into town with his fellows and would not be back until late. Without waiting for a reply, he winked cheekily at her, pressed a kiss to her softly perfumed cheek, and swept out of the dining hall, leaving poor Euphemia Potter, blinking in his direction with wide eyes, alone with a table full of half-emptied porcelain dishes and an unfinished description of her and Fleamont's next choice for a prospective daughter-in-law.

"What on Earth has gotten _into_ that boy lately?" she murmured, more to herself than anything else. As worried as she was at times about her darling son, she knew she and James' father could only watch him do as he pleased. He was a fine lad, their pride and joy, and a wild spirit at heart. They could do little else.

With the tell-tale path through the woods lit by fireflies flitting idly in the grove, James paced his way towards the gap in the wall. The further he went, the harder it became to conceal the exhilarated grin and the excited rush of his blood. His shoes squelched in the mud, which had been dampened by an earlier bout of spring rain, and he quickened his pace, running and racing and whooping until the Potter estate was far out of sight through the trees and the only sounds accompanying him were those of life in the forest.

James did not know for how long he had trudged, but by the time he burst through the trees and saw the wall in plain sight, night had fallen. As he neared, he could make out the seemingly innocuous fields on the other side of the crumbling ashen stone, and the silhouette of the ever-grumpy Argus Filch blearily keeping vigil, perched on his rickety yellow stool.

The moonlight cast an ominous shadow over Filch's wrinkled features. James could make out the keeper's eyes glinting beadily at him.

"Oh," Filch groused, squinting and turning around with a grunt. From the corner behind him, his mangy cat Ms. Norris hissed at the presence of a potential intruder. "You again, boy. Haven't seen you around in a while, have I? And where did those ruffian friends of yours go, hmm?"

James cleared his throat and blinked as innocently as he could manage. In truth, this was not the first time he had tried to venture to the other side of the wall―a number of times, during his childhood, he and Sirius and Remus had laughingly tried to climb over, much to the chagrin of the ever-watchful Filch, who never failed to be befuddled by why anybody could possibly want to climb to _Little Whinging's_ side of the wall. Yet, while each of James' efforts to cross in the past was spectacularly thwarted, this time, the young man felt, would be different. He could feel it in his bones, after all. It _would_ be different.

"Filchy―" he began, wincing when Filch narrowed his eyes further. He darted a glance at the grass on the other side. Then, as endearingly as he could wheedle out: "Filchy! Won't you be a good sport and let me cross once?"

"Oh no, no, no," Filch grumbled, his voice scratchy and sly. "Definitely not, mister. Besides, what business would _you_ have crossing over to Little Whinging? The only troubles I usually have are with pesky young things like you trying to cross over to _your side._ "

James could almost smell his ratty old-man smell from where he was standing, in straight sight of the gap. The meadow was so close he could almost _touch_ it, if only he reached out a few more steps.

"But Filchy! Come on, old boy. There isn't even anything over there! You know I'm a good kid."

Filch pursed his lips. "Mark my words, laddie: you aren't crossing, and that's final! If there's nothing over here, then how come you're so desperate to cross, _hmm_?"

James made a face very typical of a youngster denied a wish.

More wheedling: "My folks are trying to marry me off _again_! Merlin, Filch, it's just a meadow―can't you just let me through? Not even for a minute? _Please_? Just this once? If I turn back now, I won't ever have the chance to do this again, I know it!"

"That won't do you no good, Potter!" Filch bared his extra tooth, derogatorily stabbing his index finger in James' direction. "Learn to listen to your elders! I said no, and that's final! You won't be no exception, boy."

But James Potter would not be denied this. Curiosity was calling to him.

He paused for a moment, biting his lip, looking the picture of utter defeat, and linked his hands together behind his back. "So," he pouted innocently, and faked a jaunty whistle, "that's... your final call?"

Filch nodded resolutely. "That's the final word, laddie. Now you go hurry off home. Your parents'll be worried sick."

He grunted as he got up off his stool and shuffled over to James, shooing him away. "Hurry off! Go, boy!"

For dramatic effect, James clutched his chest. "Well," he admitted defeat, closing his eyes with a dramatized sigh, "that _does_ sound decisive. I suppose you're right, Filchy."

"Of course I am," the old man grumbled in irritation, huffing and settling back down on his trusty chair. He leaned back against the stone, his pipe emitting puffs of acrid smoke that cascaded heavenward. "Now go away, Potter. Or go find another rabbit hole."

"So be it!" James announced, crossing his arms and sauntering away slowly. "So long, Filch."

The old man only huffed and let his lids fall shut, hoping to filter out any more annoyances. James sauntered a few more cautious steps away, before whipping around and making a sudden dash for the entrance. Filch's eyes popped open, his pipe smoke shooting out urgently and clouding around his face as he leapt up.

"Stop, boy!" he screeched, waving his fists, but all that could be heard was James' triumphant cry as he sprinted out of Filch's reach and through the crumbling gap in the stone wall, treading on bits of debris.

"See you, Filchy!" he whooped, leaping up ebulliently as he ran.

" _Come back here, you impertinent fool_!" Filch raged, arms flailing as he crowded towards the exit, but to no avail: James had already taken the opportunity to race through the meadow and into the copse of trees on the other side of the wall, and had long since disappeared from sight. It was a futile effort. Filch's bottom lip jutted out as he blew out a breath through his mouth and shook his head despairingly, retiring to his post with a peeved look of grudging acceptance. For the heck of it, he growled at the meadow and at the trees. Just because he could. After all, if they hadn't looked so innocuous and unassuming, the foolish boy wouldn't be philandering about now, would he? Reason with that, trees!

That was all he could do. What was done had been done. Filch folded into himself and resumed his incessant grumbling. He wiped his pipe and continued smoking in his chair, scratching Ms. Norris behind the ears right where she liked it.

"Young 'uns these days... Brats, the lot of them."

* * *

What James Potter did not realize about crossing the wall was that he had just changed the course of Grimmauldian history. Well, in a manner of speaking, at least.

Had he known he was tampering with the fates of Little Whinging and Grimmauld both, chances are he never would have dared step foot across the wall. Yet, again, let it be repeated that James Potter was a frightfully curious soul and a born rule-breaker. Nothing deterred him as he set out to seek what lay beyond the unknown. Even with the wind screaming through the trees and the daylight fading fast on his heels, his ambitions did not stir. The chilly evening breeze nipped at his skin through his threadbare overcoat and the forest mist wrapped low around his ankles, but still he kept walking, stumbling to and fro but doggedly making his way straight ahead. The trees were alive, even in the dark, amidst the murky light through the grove, with sounds of chirping and cricket noises.

By the time late evening had fallen, he was tired, hungry, and weary. When he had finally had enough and made to turn around, however, James caught a glimpse of a warm, dancing light out in his periphery, and instead of turning back he defiantly trekked forward, through the trees, batting through the sharp branches―

―until he burst into a clearing, out of the woods.

He found himself standing atop a light slope dotted with foliage, and below hillock sprawled house beyond house, each grey and homely in its own right, humming cozily with warm lights and the scent of warm broth. Beyond the village lay a single winding road, twisting and turning through the trees in the distance like an idle serpent. As he skidded through the damp grass, James felt the rich yellows of candlelight from each house buoying his spirits, and suddenly he was filled with a strange, unfamiliar sense of wonderment. While he was cold and wet and shivering slightly, this bucolic, quiet sight was everything he had ever wanted.

He had done it. He had finally reached―well, wherever this was. Little Whinging, was it? What a fascinatingly odd name that was. The live thrumming in his being did not cease.

Cautiously, he made his way through the grey cobbled streets, running his fingertips across the stone walls and stopping at street lamps to stare at the beating of tiny moth wings, lit golden in the shadow. There were few people milling about on the roads, each hastily walking his or her own way―and how intriguing that was! In Grimmauld, oftentimes people stopped to chat you up, stranger or not, and bid you a good day. These muggles, however, did no such thing.

The rowdy sounds of festivity caught his attention, and he turned a few corners towards the sound until he reached what he believed to be the village center: a rounded plaza with a mosaic of stones, a few of which were crumbling from wear and old age, and a sturdy-looking fountain in the center. Tonight must have been a special night, he mused―there were twinkling lights hung up around the fountainhead, which bore a worn stone lady holding a jug, and a few colorfully-striped tents and stalls selling pots and pans of delicacies, and people bustling to and fro, laughing and talking and dancing with one another. Quaint, jovial music hovered in the air, played by a few people with wooden stringed instruments. Awestruck by the sheer simplicity and crackling air emanating from the square, James found himself jostled to and fro, nudged by passersby.

Everything was so _simple_ ―it was nothing like the bizarre and disconcerting ways of Grimmauld. These people lived without magic and fantasy, and yet here they were, indulging in some of the simplest pleasures and deriving the purest of joys from it.

In all his confusion, James found himself wandering near the edge of the fountain, and peered indelicately at the water. At the bottom, he could make out a number of rusted copper pennies, and the washed-out blue tiles, shimmering beneath the surface. As he pondered the nature of the sunken currency, he made out above the din a voice behind him.

"Lost?"

James glanced up, casting his gaze to and fro with a jerk of his head, and, while garnering a few startled looks from the odd passerby or two, found the face that would come to haunt his dreams for the rest of his days.

A girl around his age―although, really, she looked ageless, ethereal―gazed down at him from where she was stood balanced, on her toes, on the fountain ledge. James slowly stepped closer as she leaned alluringly closer, her expression bemused and watchful.

A wave of deep red locks cascaded over the smooth skin of her shoulders. Her heart-shaped face was bathed in the moonlight, and James could make out the spattering of dainty freckles across the elegant curve of her nose as she leaned forward, drawing him into her in an endless spiral from which he could not escape. With the sway of her hair and her amaranthine green eyes, James suddenly felt as if he were shrouded in a flowery mist, clouding his senses so the world slowed around him and all he could see was her.

A slow, mirthful smirk spread onto said girl's face as she noticed James' dazed expression. She tilted her head to the side, and James had to blink twice in order to stop fixating from the smooth slope of her neck.

The girl coyly placed her hands on her hips. "See anything you like?"

James had to stifle a cough, and cleared his throat. He raised a brow before breaking into the charismatic grin he had previously used on more than one occasion to charm free drinks from the local bar owners, and bowed low, much to the girl's amusement. "Milady."

Gallantly, he offered his hand, and she took it, stepping down daintily, before glancing at their linked fingers. She glanced up at him, her gaze clear and unwavering.

"You're new around here, aren't you?"

James' brows rose into his hairline. "Was it that obvious?"

The girl threw her head back and laughed, and it sounded like bells. Her hair fell back from her face in a fluid wave. "Oh, you foolish thing," she said. "Only a newcomer has eyes like yours in Little Whinging. They glow with something else entirely."

"Well, miss, why don't you show me around?" James raised a brow, and as if he had issued a challenge, the girl raised hers right back, a smile at the corner of her lips. She glanced around, and shrugged.

"Oh, hell, why not? Marlene's left me all alone anyway." She tugged gently at his hand, and James felt a shiver run up his spine. "Come, then."

She pulled him through the crowd towards a stall, purveying the contents. When James idly picked up a container filled with what looked to be yellow slime, she sighed wordlessly and pried it from his hand, and instead replaced it with a triangular slice of brownish pastry wrapped in a gingham cloth.

"Eat," she nudged it towards him, curling his fingers around it. "I made it myself. We're all expected to help a bit with the fair."

Staring fixedly at her all the while, still partially dazed, James frowned and hesitantly bit into the slice. His eyes widened when a crumbly sweetness exploded through his senses and filled him with an unexpectedly cloudy, rich warmth.

"What is this?" he goggled, eyes impossibly wide, once he finished chewing.

"Treacle tart."

"By Jove, this is one of the most marvelous desserts I have ever tasted!" James exclaimed, and the smile the girl graced him almost sent him hurtling off into the sky from pure joy alone. Then a thought struck him. "How much for it?"

The girl's lashes fluttered, glinting cheekily. "A kiss from you," she decided with a smile, and gently tapped her cheek, turning her head so James could see her profile. "Right here."

Eyes half-lidded, James gave her a wry smirk. _That_ he could do. The brunet leaned in, closing his eyes. He basked in the enchanting smell of spring that followed in her wake, when suddenly the girl turned her face, and instead of smooth skin he was greeted with her lips on his own. Startled as he was, James broke into a blissful smile.

The kiss was something James never expected to ever experience in a lifetime. The girl reminded him of wildberries, of moonlight strewn in the fields, lit by firefly glow, of the phantasmagorical color between dreaming and waking. His hand unconsciously reached to tuck a strand of her silky red hair behind her ear. It felt like the two of them had escaped to a boundless world of their own―it simply felt _right_ , holding her.

It was over far too quickly. As they broke apart, James snapped out of his stupor.

"Your name?" he asked breathlessly.

He could feel her laugh like the trickle of a brook brush lightly over his nose. "Lily. My name is Lily."

"James," he replied with a choked whisper, still reeling from the kiss. Lily giggled and pecked him on the nose before pulling away. She ran her hand down his arm, fingertips ghosting daintily across his skin, and entwined their fingers.

"Come with me, James," she murmured so only he could hear. Dazed, he could only follow, grinning and starry-eyed and heart beating so fast he thought it would explode from his chest. "There are too many people here, after all."

As James made to follow her, he suddenly paused once more, hesitating. Lily turned to eye him with an impish grin, reaching her hand out expectantly. "Well, are you coming?"

Qualms forgotten, James returned her look with a mischievous smirk of his own, enveloped her hand in his, and followed her without looking back. They ran from the plaza, her silken dress brushing fluidly around their ankles, laughing like children. As the music from the market filtered through the still air, and the path sloped upwards unevenly, they found themselves alone on the streets. Together they stood in the middle of the slanted road, and without a second thought James took her into his arms and kissed her for all he was worth, uncaring that they were out in the open.

"James," Lily murmured, her thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, her eyes brighter than the stars above. For all his gazing, James realized, none of the stars in the sky could compare to the glint of her eyes. "James, follow me."

And so it was that under the watchful gaze of the stars above, Lily took him by the hand once more, and the two immersed themselves in the throes of youthful ardor for but a single, blissful night.

* * *

Before dawn the next morning, James wearily trudged his way through the forest, hardened in his resolve not to look back upon the wondrous world he had left behind. The rest of the world was still asleep as he sighed and returned through the hole in the wall, back to the now dreadfully plain town of Little Whinging.

As in awe of his escapade as he was, he had long since decided to forget that that had ever happened, to return to the mundane life he had known before trespassing into the wizarding world, as he called it.

Ultimately, he gave in and obliged to his parents' wishes in finding him a suitable match, causing quite a stir among his inner circle, and took to his responsibilities and business ventures, but all with a more subdued vigor than before. And if, in the middle of the night, he lay awake recounting the aroma of heather and hair the color of autumn, or daydreamed before a Quidditch match about freckles like constellations and eyes green like jade, he told no one. He was dead set on returning to normal, and that was that. All was well.

As it was, the stars above did not condone this.

For the next three months James suffered from a loss of both rest and appetite and a dreamy, lackadaisical manner commonly associated with lovesickness. His parents and friends were all at a loss, for the once vibrant and active James Potter had been reduced to but a shadow of his previous self, seemingly overnight. Even the poor lad himself, having stumbled through his days in heady nostalgia of that one fateful night, found he could not think of anything else, and decided he had to see her again, if only one more time.

Once more, on a chilly winter's eve, James stole into his father's office as the two elders were resting by the hearth. Bundled in an ornate chest was a nondescript cloak with golden engravings and inscriptions weaving like vines over its rich, velvety red surface; he snatched it up, slung it on, made off out the window. He couldn't believe he hadn't thought of this before, half-mad with longing as he had been.

This time shrouded by the folds of the cloak―an Invisibility Cloak, mind you: a precious heirloom passed down supposedly from the Potter line's founding forefather―he trekked through the piles of dead leaves and through the gap in the wall without so much a hitch, even though Ms. Norris hissed at his passing halfway, causing Filch to uncannily stare in his direction as he ran. Before long, he found himself scaling that picturesque backyard fence, wading into the bushels of rosemary and lavender―planted for good luck―and collecting a handful of tiny blue pebbles. His heart tripped over itself in its haste as it beat faster, and faster, and faster, and he tossed a first straight at her window.

A rustle of the curtains―and then there she was, and James' heart rose into his throat at the sight of her gasp and her wide eyes. Cockily, he grinned at her; inside, however, he was trembling with excitement.

Not a moment later did the back door open, and did Lily's silhouette emerge, haloed in the lamplight. She ran to him. James caught her around the waist and pulled her close, breathing in the scent of flowers and odd little things that trailed in her wake, and realized that he never wanted to be parted from her ever again. This he told her, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"I'm unbelievably in love with you," he began, but Lily put a hand to his mouth to stop him.

"It's late. I'm to be married soon, to the butcher's boy down the street."

James felt his heart drop. He kissed her palm, nuzzled their noses together, and she did not stop him.

"A butcher's boy? Do you love him?"

Even her sigh was lovely. "My parents thought it best, considering. Can't you tell, James?" She gently wrapped her hands around his and placed them over her abdomen, and there he felt a stirring that so startling he almost jolted away.

"You're―?" he said disbelievingly, voice cracking, barely a whisper.

Lily's cloudy eyes and watery laugh were the only indicator: _indeed, she_ _was._ She was with child.

"And it's―" A nod. "You're certain?" Another nod.

Finally Lily spoke. "I believe," her voice was tiny. James felt weak. "It's a boy."

James could only gape in wonder at his hands over hers, over the bump so small he hadn't noticed it prior, and his heart swelled at the thought of another life belonging purely to her and himself, stirring and budding within that minuscule space.

"My son," he breathed out, breath coming out in puffs in the cold air and catching in his throat, eyes stinging. He unconsciously broke into an earsplitting grin at the thought and reached a hand up to cup Lily's cheek, and suddenly an idea, wild beyond relief, grasped at him. He gazed at her.

"Run away with me."

"James―"

"Lily." He dropped to his knees and clasped her hands in his fervently. "Please hear me out. I fell in love with you the moment I met you. I've spent the past three months sleepless because I feared I wouldn't see you again." He gently pressed his forehead to the swell. Around them, the crisp autumn breeze grazed the grasses. "And now this? Isn't this a sign that the two of us should be together?"

Lily's eyes welled with unshed tears.

"James," she whispered again, voice so quiet and broken he could barely hear her above the sounds of nightlife. Upon seeing her distraught expression, he hurriedly stood, uncaring of the muck on his knees, and pulled her so close he could feel their heartbeats as one, accelerating together.

"I'll take care of you." Ever so lightly, he kissed the corner of her brow, voice low and wistful. "I will dedicate the rest of my life to making you happy, if only it means we'll never be parted again, I promise you."

Perhaps it was the longing that had settled in her bones since that thrilling night she met the strange young man James Potter, or perhaps it was the inborn restlessness that had so plagued her all night it caused her to seek solace in the unknown ― but something of James' words struck her deep down, and she knew, against all rhyme and reason, that he meant what he said, that he wasn't a listless fluke like so many other boys she had come across during her time in Little Whinging.

That night, Lily Potter made what was perhaps the brashest decision of her life.

Whispering diabolically between themselves, the two sneaked into her bedroom, and as James waited patiently by the open window, fiddling with the gossamer curtains, Lily threw her favorite outfits and books in a raggedy, lopsided case, and delicately penned a note of farewell to her parents, which spoke of how sorry she was to leave them and that she couldn't bear to stay any longer, and that she loved them beyond compare, that she was safe and they needn't worry about her.

Once she was done, and her regrets were all laid out in ink, James linked their hands together, and together they ran, giggling like children under the safety of the Invisibility Cloak, hastily past Filch and the gap in the wall and back to Grimmauld, with only the stars above to bear witness.

The morning after came with few surprises in Little Whinging save for that of the Evans household, where, instead of finding their daughter in her fluttering yellow sundress, burying her fingers in the newly-dampened loam of the front yard's rosemary soil, elderly Mister and Missus Evans awoke to find their beloved daughter's room empty and windows splayed wide open, and a crisp note with her delicate, looping hand inscribed upon it.

And while their hearts cracked inside their chests, they could not help but feel a shred of relief upon reading the note, for they knew instinctively that their beloved daughter Lily was finally pursuing _adventure,_ something they knew she'd been seeking all her life ever since they noticed how she stood out in sharp contrast to the other duller children of Little Whinging. They trusted her, and wistfully wished her the best―for that is all a parent can do when their child leaves the nest―and prayed that wherever she was, she was doing well.

* * *

The next day and for many days following, James and Lily were inseparable. The elder Potters were absolutely taken with Lily's vivacious, uncommonly kind nature, and found her to be a charming―albeit unusual―match for James, who often took to fawning over her like a lovesick puppy. They spent the approaching winter months wrapped around one another in front of the fireplace, taking spirited walks around town, lying together in the snow, wreaking Yuletide havoc with Sirius and Remus―both of whom adored the newest addition to their group―and discovering one another.

As the days passed, James found that Lily had a most unusual penchant for the smallest of magics, something he and the others had never before seen beyond Grimmauld. Where she walked, the grass instantly turned vernal, and whenever she passed through in town the lilac bushes perked up like sunflowers in the sunlight. Whenever she kissed James, he fell further in love with her, and whenever she baked, breads and pastries seemed to spring to life under her careful coaxing, like they had imbued within them the rich aroma of first love, and caused an uproar among the townspeople. In turn, Lily, to her utmost delight, found James to always unfailingly make her laugh, to hold her close in a way that she felt she could never be lonely ever again, and to be all at once talented and endearing and completely, insanely lovable.

And, finally, on a fine day with the softest of breezes wafting in the air and the earliest of spring flowers sprouting from cracked cobblestones in the streets, James took Lily by the hand and proposed to her atop the uppermost branches of a nearby tree, where they laughed together, hidden from the prying gazes of passersby. He gently clasped her hand in his and leaned in close, resting his chin on her shoulder, and whispered in her ear the fateful question.

"Lily, my love, will you marry me?"

Her eyes shone even more, and he resisted the urge to kiss her as she smirked at him, one of her hands lovingly resting on her baby bump, the other brushing the hair out of his eyes.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Together, under the watchful eyes of only their closest friends and family (and the Potters' faithful, lumpy errand boy, Peter), the two were married in secret. That sunny afternoon in the forest meadow, Lily's bright red hair was woven with apple flowers that bloomed even more in her braids than they did in the soil, and her dress swept only to her ankles in its comforting white lace, and James' suit was a brilliant white, his hair just as untamed and wild as ever. They kissed beneath the setting sun, dancing and drinking wine bubbled from Grimmauld's finest vineyards, and furtively whispered amongst one another, as the sun vanished beyond the trees, of joyous things to come.

By the time the week had ended, the happy newlyweds, having moved to a cottage a small distance away, were gone from the old Potter residence.

For a while the young Potters lived in unending bliss, free to do and love as they pleased, away from the watchful eyes of others. They had picnics in the front garden whenever they felt like it, with Lily's lilacs and lavenders in full bloom around them, and stayed up all night whenever they so chose. On days that were slow they took walks together in town, where passersby would marvel at how the lovely Potter missus, with her hair as fine and red as flame, seemed to glow when she walked―from the pregnancy or some other preternatural matter, they weren't certain. Nighttime found them wandering the rustling bush of the forest paths or dining with Remus and Sirius, laughing and joking until the crack of dawn.

But mostly, when the roads were quiet and folks were at home by the hearth, Lily and James found themselves lying together in bed, intertwined, breathing together as one as they listened to the tiny heartbeat of the babe who would soon grace their household.

And not a moment too soon. On a day like any other, when July came to a close, there was a sudden clamor in the Potter household. James had been out in town with Sirius and Remus, buying ingredients to sate Lily's desire to pick up her baking once more, when suddenly they ran into the lad Peter on the road. The lumpy-looking lad was panting, sweat beading his temple, as he breathlessly informed the trio that _the baby was coming, the baby was coming!_

Without further notice the three had raced back to the house, where they could hear through the open windows the old nursemaid and midwife's cries amidst the chaos. When James raced into the bedroom, where Lily lay with her hair fanned out on the pillow like a fiery halo and her breaths coming in quick, he knelt by her side and kissed her brow, and grasped her hand tightly within his in both mind-numbing anxiety and excited terror.

That evening, as moths fluttered by the lone lamp outside and cats prowled in the grove, people swore they saw a sheen of blinding light emerge from the topmost window of the young Potters' residence, followed by the keening wail of a newborn embracing the world beyond. From then on it was the talk of the town: the Potters had given birth to an adorable, chubby little rascal with round, rosy cheeks, his mother's large, vibrant green eyes, and tufts of his father's unruly black hair atop his head.

When James first held the tiny little creature in his arms, delicately, the babe had cried out shrilly in delight upon seeing him and reached out a chubby hand to grab at his glasses; the young man's heart had swelled in adoration at the sight, and he had fallen in love for the second time in his life.

The following year or so, the household was a whirlwind. Lily and James steadied one another as they tripped and stumbled through the perils of parenthood, as Harry laughed and cried and made messes wherever he went. Family and friends came and went often, and soon the doors were open so frequently that Lily took to simply leaving it open so guests could welcome themselves in directly, and James found himself buying fresh produce so frequently he could make his way to the market on muscle memory alone.

Everybody especially adored Harry. The child was a little miracle: he had a knack for crawling into nooks and crannies and stirring up trouble, and an eye for the daily magics that occurred beyond the house. Some, when they passed the family by on the street, swore they noticed a strangely insightful gleam in the baby's eyes, only to laugh it off―for what could an infant possibly know? Yet he _was_ special: he was a child raised in the most loving household, beloved by all those who came across him and all those who had yet to meet him. Everything was blissful, and everybody was happy.

But it was not to last.

As Harry approached his first birthday, times began changing. Rumors of attacks and strange activity in the dark forests of the country began circulating. People who had previously been fine began suddenly acting strange, those who had been living fine suddenly disappeared overnight, and homes and pets were abandoned without notice. From all around, news of inexplicable murders and terrors began cropping up; news of a _monster_ had people quivering in their beds and boarding up their doors at night. Soon, as soon as dusk settled every day, Diagon Alley was oddly bereft of life.

Something unknown had begun plaguing people and creatures alike, but nobody knew what, save for the thinnest of whispers in dark corners and alleyways. Grimmauld was feeling threatened, and had unleashed her thorns.

James, too, had begun acting oddly. There was a frantic haze to his every move: when he walked, he did so with haste; when he talked, he did so with caution creeping into his every word. At night, when they huddled together, he would pull her close and hold her like he was to lose her the next morning, and she worried. Finally, a short while after Harry's first birthday―a hushed event with little fanfare, and only Remus and Sirius for company―James finally revealed the source of his worries.

First it had been a rushed visit to his parents' residence, where they had told him troubling news: purebloods―men and women with magic flowing full through their veins, as it was too for the Potter line―Euphemia and Fleamont Potter had once kept in close contact with had abruptly stopped correspondence in the past few weeks, and they had overheard talk of children being snatched in the night by an unknown force. What little they knew, they explained, they had heard straight from the horse's mouth, and perhaps it would be best if, at least for a while, they did not visit their son and daughter-in-law, for fear of drawing attention.

Then it had been the increasing number of missives. James had begun receiving, from a contact of import, letters that were increasingly fraught with warning. As time passed, they grew more urgent, urging the couple to go into hiding for both their and baby Harry's safety, that it was possible the child would be targeted.

Finally, on the final night of August, the final missive came on a nondescript piece of torn parchment, with letters scrawled in dried blood: _The Dark Lord is coming. Run._

Unwilling to risk Harry's safety, James and Lily bid Sirius and Remus a tender farewell and fled to the nondescript village of Godric's Hollow, far west and removed from the fearful flurry that was the Diagon district. There they lay, deep in wait in a cottage of two stories and cobblestone. In Godric's Hollow, they waited in tentative happiness, placing a spell that shielded them from the rest of the world save for from the faithful lad Peter, who continued bringing them news from the outside world from time to time. Temporarily, all was well ― as long as they were together, they were fine.

Until one night, everything changed.

* * *

When the clock struck eleven on Hallow's Eve, James and Lily Potter were huddled together over Harry's cot as he lay sleeping, murmuring with their heads bent lovingly together as if they weren't hiding from the world. Had they not been preoccupied with the happenings of the tiny nursery, they might have heard the telltale creaking of the front gate as it was pried open, or the barely noticeable sound of heavy footsteps crunching on the flowers above the crisp autumn breeze.

Unfortunately for the Potters, it was not until they heard the baying of wolves in the distance that they finally realized something was amiss, for wolves on the open rural plain meant only ill fortune. An ominous scratching on the front door, as the room fell into silence, sent shivers up their spines, and the single panicked look they exchanged held miles of emotions they knew they had no time to express.

"They're here," Lily whispered hopelessly, voice tremulous. Tenderly she reached down into the cot and carded her fingers through baby Harry's wispy hair. "How did they find us?"

James, leaning against the railing beside her, their sides pressed together, could only gaze at his wife longingly. How he wished they had all the time in the world, when in reality there was a chance he would not last the night.

In that moment, as he took in the sight of his wife and his son in suspended serenity for what he feared was the last time, he felt a fierce, protective determination burgeon within him. He had vowed once upon a time, when they were but two youngsters uncolored and untroubled by the plagues of the world around them, he would take care of Lily and Harry, till his last dying breath.

Outside, the scratching and howling grew nearer. He could hear the monsters descending, circling. For a moment, his heart stopped, for he could feel the charms around the house dissipate; the next, there came a deafening explosion that shook the walls and rocked the floors, so much so that loose cobble in the wall began raining down and debris began collecting around their ankles. The lights in the nursery flickered, and went out. Instantly, footfalls and the clicking of claws began pounding through the house, scrabbling up the stairs and through the landing in a thumping, howling frenzy, and it seemed as if the entire building was trembling.

Lily grabbed Harry, who began whimpering in terror, as outside the rain, which previously nobody had noticed, began pelting down through the cracks, soaking everything in its wake. Quickly, James clambered up from where he had fallen and slammed the nursery door shut, and shoved the cot, now slick from the rain, in front of the frame in a meager attempt to stall the intruders. Smoke began billowing in thick plumes through the doorway and the windows. Thunder roared through the clouds above them, and everything was dark save for the occasional flashes of lightning now striking overhead.

Suddenly, there came a crash, and something large barreled against the nursery door. Lily screamed, and cradled Harry closer. As lightning once again briefly lit up the room, James stumbled over to where she was crouched in the corner, and grief billowed within him at the thought of what he was to do next.

He took her face in his rain-slicked hands, and gazed into her brilliant emerald eyes, engraving her image in the back of his heart, refusing to look away even as rainwater trickled over his forehead and the malodorous fumes from the explosion downstairs stung at his nose and eyes.

"Lily, take Harry and run!" he yelled over the pouring rain. "I'll hold him off―"

She looked at him like he was mad, and told him so.

"I'm not leaving without you!" she cried, and above the din they could both make out the insistent crashing of _something_ outside, cracking the frame and gradually carving out gouges on the door. They were running out of time.

"You must! It's him! Go! Please!"

Frantically he kissed her, before pushing himself up and readjusting his glasses. Lily grabbed at his sleeve as he stood, distraught.

"James, _please_ ―"

The door rattled once more, the frame cracking, and he knew there was no more time to spare.

James fell into a crouch beside her, and hugged her, hard and fast. His voice, a hoarse rasp from the smoke, was the only thing she could hear above the din as he pulled a nondescript cloak from where it lay innocuously on the edge of the crib and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Lily, my love, please do this. If not for me, then for Harry."

He could not tell if the tracks down her cheeks were from the storm or tears as she kissed him urgently, with all the desperation that comes with tragedy. "Don't make me do this," she sobbed. Nestled between them, baby Harry obliviously reached out and pawed at his glasses, and James felt tears well in his eyes at the fact that he would never see them both again.

"I'll find you, I promise. I promised, didn't I? I will always find you."

"James―"

He pulled her up with all the gentleness of a lover, before opening the window, and urged Lily out through the opening.

" _Now run!_ "

" _James!"_

He slammed the window shut with a wry, resigned smile as the door flew off its hinges, sending a shower of splinters throughout the room, and the cot hurtled against the wall with a tremendous bang. Lily screamed at the sound, banging against the glass with rain pouring all over her, as she watched flames suddenly engulf the doorframe and lick their way up the walls, and a gust of black robes and grey fur sweep into the room, and James stumble back against the wall, bleeding―and then the curtain rod tore from its spot above the window and fell, obscuring her view of the room.

Only the maelstrom above bore witness to Lily Potter's ruin as she threw her head back, poured her heart out, and screamed a scream that tore the heavens asunder. There she was, barely dangling from the ledge of a soiled window with a baby in her arms, lying in the ruin of her life as pillars of flame and columns of rain began to tear her house apart.

However, the grief, so intense it made her dizzy and unable to breathe, did not last long. For inside, she heard a cruel voice, grating like claws on a chalkboard in a way that had her heart shrivel, decree, "The girl has not gotten far. Find her, find the child, and bring it to me. _Alive_."

And so Lily ran.

She leaped off the roof, landing awkwardly so as to protect Harry, and jumped through the gaping wounds in the backyard fence, where the fires had already consumed her dahlias and had her lilacs drooping, and ran towards the forest. Behind her, she could hear the creatures bursting through the back door and following heatedly on her tail. With each step, she could hear the bone-chilling howls of wolves and lupes bounding closer and closer.

She could feel her breaths coming in ragged gasps, like the air around her was compressed, stabbing like tiny blades into her throat and lungs. Her legs trembled with every other step. Mud caked her bare feet, and branches scratched at her arms and cheeks as she protectively hunched over the whimpering babe in her arms. Night had fallen; there was not a light in the forest, and the trails were so swollen with mud and rainwater that there was no clear path she could take. Instead, she simply _ran_ ―she could almost feel their rancid, wet hot breaths snapping at her heels, and their deadly talons grazing against her calf, but she would not stop. She _could_ not stop.

Winded, with blistering feet and bleeding limbs and the last thing her husband had given her dangling haphazardly around her shoulders, Lily collapsed the trees. She did not know for how long she had run, only that each step was slowly killing her, and that she would not make it. The wolves were closing in on her, she could feel. With a cry, she lay sprawled in the mud, bleeding sluggishly, with Harry still securely wrapped in her grip.

She could not do it.

Lily looked up, a sob tearing through her. She had tried, and she had failed. She did not even know where she was going, or what she was doing, and everything she had ever known had been destroyed in the matter of hours. She would never see James again―nor Harry, nor Sirius and Remus, nor the dear lovely Potter elders, and not even her family, for that matter―and life was failing her.

As she curled her fingers in the mud, listening to the sounds of paws smacking against the dirt behind her, around her, in exhilarated, unyielding pursuit, on the verge of surrendering to the elements, she noticed a faint light wavering in the distance.

Later, she would not know what compelled her to struggle up once more. Perhaps she thought it was the slimmest possibility of a better ending, or the tiniest embers of hope settling within her―nobody knew. But suddenly a boldness she had never before known surged within her, and she found herself tugging at a nearby tree trunk to pull herself up and out of the mud. Even as the freezing wet leaves plastered themselves to her skirt and brambles snagged on her toes, she forged forward agonizingly slowly against the icy wind, towards the source of the glow.

After what seemed like an eternity, Lily, half numbed from the biting breeze, burst from the trees into a field, whereupon lay a sight she instantly found familiar: it was here that once upon a time she had lain in a field of heather underneath a blanket of stars with James, that very night the infant in her arms was conceived. She had reached the wall. If only she could cross over, perhaps not all was lost―

With a tremendous rush, the pack of wolves erupted from the foliage with snarls and snapping teeth, and she felt her heart hammer in her throat as they surrounded her, tearing at her dress. They circled around her, each larger and more grotesque than the next, some barely wolf and more human. There was no escape. Snuffling against her chest, Harry whimpered, and in horrified disgust Lily saw a number of ears prick up and tongues slobber at the sound.

"Hand over the child, red," one howled, and the others chorused in agreement.

"No harm for you if you give up the child, red!" chimed in another ghoulishly.

The baby whimpered, and Lily pulled him closer. Anger and fear simmered in her veins. She was so close; this could not possibly be it, she was but a fingertip away, this could not _possibly_ be how things ended―

From the other side of the gap Filch poked his head through, having heard the commotion. In his hands he carried a pitchfork, which he wielded with surprising steadiness, and his eyes glinted knowingly.

"What's going on?" he barked. Little did Lily know, all he saw was a crowd of mangy canines screeching and making a racket in the dead of the night, while _everybody was supposed to be asleep._ All movement stopped, and the wolves parted somewhat in alarm, but he did not care. "Get out of here, all of you! Scram!"

A single creature broke from the pack. He was larger than life, about the size of a rickety wagon, and as he stepped closer he rose up on his heels so he walked, chillingly, like a human. With each step, his features began to morph, becoming more man-like: his snout shortened to an ugly, lumpy nose, and his fangs shortened, save for his incisors, to misshapen yellow blades, and his jaw squared. He was bleeding profusely from a gash torn over one eye. One moment, he was all werewolf; the next, he was almost man, barely human, and extremely threatening.

"Run along now, little man," he growled, voice but a hair-raising rumble. "This ain't none of your business."

As he strode over towards Filch, Lily, with trepidation lining her shallow breathing, reached up and unraveled the cloak from around her shoulders with a single move. It cascaded softly towards the ground, wrapping around her form, and suddenly, it was as if she had never been there at all. In their distraction, not a soul noticed.

"You've better business to do than hang around here." Filch sneered, undeterred and rather repulsed by the man's hideous physique and breath. "You can come for me all you want. You know you'll all turn into sniveling puppies the moment you cross this." He indicated the stones of the wall. "I have a weapon I can use, an empty belly, and a taste for mongrel meat. What do you say?"

For a moment the wolf-man leered in bitter silence, the expression on his face growing more hateful by the second.

"This ain't over, old coot," he snarled at Filch, and backed away warily from the stones, as if they were cursed.

The old man shrugged, and planted the hilt of the pitchfork on the ground proudly.

"You're welcome back anytime. I've faced much worse than you, after all. Now begone."

The wolf-man turned back to his business, only to find the others huddled around nothing. Each looked as clueless as the next. Fury clouded his face, and for a second his head seemed to shift back to that of a wolf's. His eye bulged; from the socket, blood began seeping through anew.

"Where are they? _Where are they?_ "

What none of them noticed was the slight figure of Lily Potter, hidden discreetly under her husband's Invisibility Cloak, sneaking her way across the field and through the gap in the wall. Sides splitting, she half ran, half tumbled down the hill slopes towards the one place she could now call home after everything that had happened this night, and something in her broke as she saw the warm, yellow glow of serene streetlamps bathing the calm streets of Little Whinging in light.

And she realized, with tears streaming down her face: she had done it.

But at what cost?

* * *

That night, as the local flower vendor Marlene McKinnon―an old friend who had taken to occasionally visiting the old Evans family up in the cottage across the street for old times' sake―opened the door on her way to head home after delivering a pie, she was greeted with a crisp autumn breeze and the sight of a ragged figure sprawled out on the front step.

Eyes wide, she crouched down and lifted the person's chin up slightly, only to come face to face with the bruised and battered countenance of Lily Potter, wrapped in only a dull cloak and holding a bundle tightly to her chest, with a look of ages of grief and regrets buried in her reddened eyes.

For a second, they were both frozen, before Lily broke down into a fresh bout of tears and fell against Marlene's shoulder. The brunette felt a sob also well up in her throat, soured by how long they hadn't seen one another, and clung to her just as hard.

"God, darling, you're freezing," she muttered, but did not remark any more on how Lily was wearing no shoes, how she had multiple cuts and bruises on her arms and legs, how she was holding what definitely seemed to be a now wailing child. For, somehow, she felt that no matter how hard anyone tried to pry, these secrets Lily would keep for herself until she was ready.

Instead, she wrapped an arm around her friend's shoulder, ushered her into the house, and closed the door.

High above in the sky, the stars winked, for they knew this was the beginning of a tale unprecedented―one that would change the fate of both Little Whinging and Grimmauld.

* * *

 **final note :** remember to R&R!


	2. 19 years later

**Disclaimer :** again, I don't own any of this. If only I were that creative. Certain sections of this chapter are derived directly from the movie/book, like the polar bear hide part. I'm not creative enough for that.  
 **AN :** I'm all for #tallHarry, which I'm sure would have been the case if he hadn't been left with those horrid Dursleys, poor child. Draco will appear in the next chapter! Now, if I'm correct, this is the point where the stories begin to take shape. Remember to tell me what you think!  
 **Warnings/Other :** bad language, darker themes, some relatively graphic descriptions of gore. But not much for these two chapters, especially since the stone's only just started rolling.  
 **Summary :** a star falls, and inadvertently changes the lives of everyone who sees it. _Or_ : the many stories start to converge.

* * *

 **Your Heart in Exchange for Mine**

 **by nightofowls**

A star falls from the sky and into your hands.  
Then it seeps through your veins and swims inside your blood and becomes every part of you.  
And then you have to put it back into the sky. And it's the most painful thing you'll ever have to do and that you've ever done.  
But what's yours is yours... And one day, it'll fall from the sky and hit you in the head real hard  
and that time, you won't have to put it back in the sky again.

― C. JoyBell C.

* * *

 _part 2: nineteen years later_

* * *

 **In Little Whinging...**

Nineteen years had passed since Mr. and Mrs. Evans had last found their daughter collapsed on their front step, many months after her disappearance. Since then, in a manner of speaking, life was different in the Evans household.

Following her return, Lily was much changed. For the first few months back at home, she stayed cooped up under her sheets, quietly mourning the passing of a lover her parents would never know. Periodically, her mother and father would hear bouts of inconsolable sobbing through the walls as they slept. They took an instant liking to the chubby infant she had been carrying that night, and doted ceaselessly on him while his mother grieved, knowing that only with time would the wounds on her heart heal. They never asked about what had happened in those months she was gone, for they knew she would tell only of her volition, when she was ready.

A few months later, she emerged finally from her bedroom, eyes ringed with red and hair a mess, wearing a melancholy that would decorate her air for the next few decades and make her all the lovelier, all the more mature, and whispered but a single line to her parents.

"His name was James Potter, and I will only ever love him. Please let me be addressed by his name."

And so she was, much to the chagrin of those around her.

Lily was different, following the ordeal. While she was still appeared as effervescent and ethereal as before, she often fell into brief dazes during which her eyes would glaze over and the sadness veiled beneath them would emerge, as if she was reminiscing times long gone by, and she began keeping to herself, talking mostly to her parents and Marlene and baby Harry, more and more often.

Eventually, she would return to her old ways of skipping about, her mind elsewhere, but now she dedicated all her being to making sure her son was loved, and that was that. She opened a bakery in the heart of Little Whinging, where she periodically used little spells to imbue feelings of affection and wisdom and satisfaction within her bread, whose aroma―along with her own vibrancy, her seeming agelessness―caused occasional whispers of her being a witch.

The boy named Harry grew up fleet-footed and hale, witty and quick to laugh. With his mop of unruly black hair, infectious grin, and uncanny penchant for trouble, people could not help wondering from where Lily ever found the anonymous father. He was a sensation amongst the older generations in town, an absolute delight; when he was still but a babe, the elder women of the village often fought among themselves to see his stubborn little locks and wide, curious eyes. Among his peers he was mischievous but reserved, talented but carefree, and everything in between.

People knew he could only be Lily's boy the moment they saw his magnetic green eyes―none of which the elder Evanses possessed. They could not, however, for the life of them, guess who sweet little Harry's father had been, and harbored no hopes of ever seeing the roguish fellow.

For all they knew, as the Evans had reluctantly regaled after much prodding and many curious stares at their daughter's unexpected return, the poor lad had been an honorable traveler a few towns over, and had been thrown from his horse one stray night before the ceremony could take place. That was that.

"His father," folks would whisper, whenever they passed the Evans household on the street, and saw Harry―lovable little Harry with only his mother's eyes and his father's everything else―playing in the yard, "must've been a looker."

"He must have been," others would agree. "What a shame."

Beyond these tender ruminations, no one spoke of it―at least to their faces. Genetics was a funny thing to the normalish folk of Little Whinging.

The truth behind Harry Potter's origins remained buried, a forgotten subject within the household.

At the tender age of nineteen, he grew fast. He was a considerate, winsome young man, considered dashing with a boyish charm. He was of considerable height, reasonably smart, and exceptionally kind to those around him. Harry Potter had grown up to be a fine person.

And now, he, much like many of the other young men in the village, was subject to the throes of love.

Harry wiped half-heartedly at the countertop and sighed. He had recently taken up a job working for the surly village shop owner, a certain Vernon Dursley, who was so brutish and ornery that about 95 percent of the time, Harry had half a mind to defenestrate the old geezer and be done with it.

Vernon Dursley was as big and broad and callous as they come, with a lumpy mustache, minuscule hawk eyes, and a belly larger than a kiddie pool float, and was the kind of man who would put on a strained happy face in a stranger's presence and proceed to screech abuse at those he knew the moment his back was turned. In essence, he was a horrible man and pitiful excuse for a human being. He owned a gloomy shop called Grunnings that sold sacks of flour and wheat and other miscellaneous goods, and more than oft forced poor Harry to tidy up shop, lug said bags of crop around, and do sums the lazy twit himself was supposed to complete.

The one good thing about working, Harry supposed, was that the love of his life often came here to buy things.

 _Ah, Cho Chang_. That's right. That's exactly what she was: the love of Harry's life, his soulmate, his destined partner... never mind that she had no idea he even existed.

Harry sighed again.

 _Cho Chang was so pretty_.

" _Booooy_!" There he went again.

Vernon Dursley stormed through the back entrance, his face bloated and on the verge of becoming dangerously crimson. His eyes had become so squinted that they sunk into his flesh and were invisible. Harry startled, dropping the rag.

"Stop dilly-dallying! You've been cleaning that damned countertop for hours and I still can't see my reflection in the glass, you nitwit!" Vernon barked, shoving his face in Harry's. Spittle flew _everywhere_.

Harry mentally counted to three and wiped the stray flecks of saliva of his face. "You _just_ told me to start cleaning it, and it's not glass. You couldn't see your reflection if you tried... W-With all due respect, _sir_."

Vernon turned purple, arms flailing. "Keep that attitude and I'll see you fired within the _day_! See what your father thinks of that, eh? Useless! Now attend the customers! You're making me lose my business!"

Seething, Harry threw the rag aside and went to retrieve a sack of potatoes, his mind still plagued with thoughts of fragrant black hair and almond-shaped eyes.

* * *

By the time the clock had struck half past three, Harry was in a foul mood. He was tired and sweaty and completely fed up with his boss, and had already contemplated several times whether or not it was possible to smack the sod and not get fired.

"That'll be three-fifty, sir," he said dutifully to the current customer, tapping on the keys of the dusty old cashier machine. Behind the man stood a queue of several people; upon peeping over the customer's shoulder and seeing the line, Harry sucked in a breath. The man slid him a note. "Change for five, coming right up."

The shop door clanged open, the chime in the doorway heralding the arrival of another prospective customer, and a slender girl with a heart-shaped face and pin-straight black hair breezed through. Harry glanced up, prepared to make his customary greeting. "Hi, welcome to― _Cho_!" he ended up squeaking, choking on his words.

"Oh," Cho's expression became slightly pinched upon seeing him waving behind the counter, but kept her tone light and airy. She waltzed up to the counter. "Hello, Harry."

Harry quickly shoved the change at his current customer and sidled up to stand directly across from her, ignoring the rest of the people waiting in line. He tried to keep his excitement at bay upon seeing her. She was so gorgeous. The butterflies in his stomach frenetically flapped their wings and took flight. "Cho! How are you doing? It's great to see you! How can I help you?"

Cho Chang was without a doubt the most beautiful girl in the village of Little Whinging. Harry would have argued that she was the most beautiful girl in the entire continent―perhaps even the world―and then prepared to fight you over it, had you the thought to disagree. Not that anyone around was inclined to disagree. Cho Chang was the kind of girl who turned many heads and, in turn, broke many hearts. She had a heart-shaped face and bright brown eyes the color of fresh honey, and long, straight ebony hair that shone and swept about her in the wind, and she smelled of lavender and pretty pink candyfloss.

In Harry's eyes, she was the embodiment of perfection.

Suddenly, he felt a nagging sense of self-consciousness as she paused and spared a glance at his outfit. "Hi Harry," she repeated, a small―albeit slightly strained―smile on her face. "I need a few pounds of flour, a dozen eggs, some chocolate, and―" Cho bit her lip and glanced around, before reaching for a few cans of meat. She quickly placed them on the counter. "These."

"O-Of course!" Harry rushed to bag the goods, ignoring the offended looks of the customers who had already been milling about. "Here, take this," he said, pushing the bag in her direction. "I'll go get the rest."

"Thank you," Cho replied, glancing at her nails.

As Harry lugged over a large bag of flour from behind the countertop, Vernon Dursley bustled in through his office door.

"Boy, what are you doing, holding up the line?" he groused, eyes narrowed.

Ignoring him, Harry peeked out from behind the large sack. "Here it is," he grinned at her.

"Cho, can I see you tonight?" he then ventured.

She raised a brow, and did not reply or look at him.

"How much?" she said instead, and made to open her purse, and Harry's eyes widened, heart skipping a beat. Her hands were so small and dainty...

"No, no, don't worry about it, it's on me," he insisted hurriedly. Cho glanced up, frowning.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, by all means," Harry rushed, sliding open the latch door and exiting from behind the counter. "If not, I get off in a few minutes; I can walk you home. Help you carry this, y'know."

"Th-There's no need for that," Cho began with an awkward smile, "I don't want to bother you―"

"Nonsense! I'd be happy to do it," Harry interjected.

She thought about it for a moment, a finger to her lips, before finally sighing. It seemed like a hundred years had passed before she finally conceded, with a twinkle of amusement in her eye, "Certainly, then, if it's not too much trouble."

Vernon Dursley bustled over. "What in heaven's name are you doing, Potter? _Get back in here_!" he thundered as the two began walking out together. As the pair exited, his indignant yell could be heard through the door: "I'll have you _fired_ , boy!"

Harry found that he didn't mind one bit.

He quickened his pace so as to catch up to Cho, who was steadily pacing ahead, her gaze fixed on the road ahead. So as to put a stop to the silence as he struggled with the weight of the groceries, Harry attempted to make conversation.

"So, um, Cho..." he began. He scuffed his shoes against the dirt path bashfully.

"Hm?"

"I was―I was wondering if you'd like to go out sometime? W-With me, that is."

Cho paused in her steps, and swiveled around to look at him as he tried to catch up. They had been scaling up a slope, and now she was standing slightly above him. Harry could not feel smaller as she leveled him with an unreadable gaze.

"With you?" she asked incredulously.

Harry looked hopefully earnest, poor soul.

"Why, yes." He showed her his most heartfelt grin. "I happen to like you, a lot."

She sighed, pursing her lips. "Oh Harry," was all she managed to get out, sighing and shaking her head with a rueful smile. Then she turned back around and continued walking. Harry's expression dropped, but with dogged persistence he continued to follow her.

Cho had slowed slightly, and now they were on the same footing. "It's right there," she said, mostly to fill the silence, pointing at a small white cottage around the bend. It was quite unnecessary, but Harry supposed he appreciated the thought.

They walked on in silence until they reached her front steps. Harry looked up. There was a forbidding black brick wall that closed the garden off, looking rather foreboding as it surrounded the house. He noticed the top window on the right had flowery lilac curtains―knowing Cho, that was probably her room.

"Will you perhaps think about it?" Harry cautiously asked her. His heart was thudding unbearably fast in his chest, and he felt the heat of midday bearing down upon him.

Cho turned around on the steps. "Think about what?" she asked dismissively.

"Going, um―going out with me?" Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea, after all. Harry had no idea from where he had gotten this darned idiotic courage. Usually in cases like this he was almost painfully shy. He couldn't bear to see her almost patronizingly sympathetic gaze directed his way. All of a sudden, the ground became of an intense fascination to the poor boy. His cheeks were on fire.

"Harry," she drew out her words slowly, "you're a nice boy. Really. But I'm to be wed, soon, and, if I'm being completely honest, you wouldn't really be... my _first_ choice."

Harry's heart fell. "Are you sure? I'd do anything to prove my worth to you, Cho."

"Look, Harry―"

Before the girl could formulate a proper reply, another voice cut in, startling them both. Harry jumped a mile in the air.

"What's going on here?"

Harry whipped around, cheeks ablaze and hair an unflattering mess.

Cho peeked around Harry and lit up upon recognizing the intruder. With a girlish shriek of joy she pushed past Harry and leapt at the newcomer, wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Cedric!"

 _Ah... Cedric._ Harry's face fell even further, if that was humanly possible. He stared at the two dumbly. What a sight he must have made, standing there and holding groceries like a fool on Cho's front doorstep while she was out on the pavement dancing about another guy.

Cedric Diggory was the town's resident heartthrob―of course he was, Harry reflected bitterly. He was tall and sturdily built, with the refined features of a classic Greco-Roman deity (Harry hated himself for the comparison, but whose fault was it that he learned this at school when he was younger? Not his!): an impossibly straight nose, high cheekbones, a chiseled squarish jaw, smoldering hazelnut eyes that made girls swoon and fan at themselves whenever he passed by... Then add in his sleek brown curls and his proclivity for all things athletic― _especially_ sword-fighting―and _boom_! There was your dream boy.

Harry grimaced internally. _Girls sure love boys who can handle a sword_.

He himself couldn't even hold a stick properly if he tried, let alone wield a weapon.

(But let it be known that Harry Potter's aim and accuracy was great. He was sure that if he and Cedric were to compete in a pebble-throwing match, he would beat that guy to the ground. Metaphorically.)

And then there was the question of his personality.

Cedric was a straight-up charmer. _Everyone_ in town loved and admired him. Elderly ladies invited him in for tea every time they saw him walk by, and mothers berated their sons for not being like that _tall, handsome Diggory boy_ ; old grandfathers and gentlemen clapped him on the shoulder amicably every time they passed one another.

And let's not mention the girls. Namely Cho Chang.

"What's Harry Potter doing at your door? No end to his charms, is there?"

Harry _hated_ Diggory's guts.

Cho's voice shook him out of his reverie. Cedric was currently raising his brow as threateningly as he could at Harry, one hand hovering about the scabbard hanging from his belt in warning, while Cho had practically draped herself over him, her two arms wrapped lovingly around his middle.

"Oh," she smiled sweetly at him, resting her chin on his shoulder and not even bothering to spare Harry a glance, "Harry was just helping me deliver my groceries. He's very sweet, I'll have you know." By this point she was just having them both on.

"Um," was all Harry could force out. It felt like words were lodged in his throat, grating and grinding like glass shards. Hastily he set down the groceries on the front step and started padding down the steps, not daring to look their way and see the sight of his beloved and her own beloved that made his heart rise up in his throat. Trying not to meet their eyes, he made to dodge around them, mumbling all the way. "I'll just leave these here, shall I? I hope it's not too much trouble for you; I just remembered that I have a, uh, thing to do, so I guess I'll see you around, have a nice evening―"

"Hold it there, Potter."

The sound of metal scraping metal filled the air the next moment, and Harry froze in his step. He gulped when he felt a telltale pinprick rest against his upper back, and gritted his teeth, cursing everything.

"Turn around."

He did.

The tip of Cedric's sword rose so that it was level with Harry's throat. His gaze followed the blade's movement, darting up to meet the fiery look stewing in Cedric's eyes. The man jutted his chin out.

"Potter, you listen to me, and listen closely," Cedric bit out. Harry suddenly felt it extremely hard to breathe. "I don't know what you think you've got going on here―" He waved his sword around for emphasis. "―but let me tell you this, shop boy: stop meddling in things you don't understand, got it? You have no right to be here."

"Cedric!" Cho berated, but Harry could still hear the almost wry undertone in her voice. "Be nice to the poor boy."

Cedric prodded his sword in Harry's direction once more, and the brunet stumbled back, tripping on a stray twig. Almost hopelessly, he bent down in a snap and picked it up, wielding it with as much of his last shreds of dignity as he could muster. Not that he had any left.

"Never were much for fencing, were you? As a matter of fact," Cedric thrust the blade upwards: a challenge, "weren't really much for anything, were you, Potter? Well, go on."

In a feeble attempt to remain standing with grace, Harry fumbled with the stick. Cho looked slightly worried as her lover advanced on him, parrying with all the finesse of a trained marksman. Harry dodged a quick sideswipe, and then leaned back enough to avoid another blow, only to have the stick knocked out of his hands. Harry leaped backwards, completely defenseless. And finally, when his luck couldn't get worse, he stepped on a pebble and tripped, slipping and landing right on his behind. Harry felt useless and discarded, like a tiny tot being picked on by a group of self-centered, entitled rich bullies. Cedric hadn't even broken a sweat; in fact, there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Just as I suspected," he sneered, sword pointed between Harry's eyes. "A complete good-for-nothing."

Ah, Harry's mind supplied helpfully, if only the ground could swallow him up forever, now would be the perfect time for that.

"Cedric, that's enough." The previous hint of a smile on Cho's face was gone now. Dusk had already fallen, and the sky was streaked with pastel pinks and purples of every variant. A preprandial evening breeze had already begun to whip up. With Cho's exclamation, Cedric finally sucked in a slow breath and withdrew.

"Consider that a warning, Potter. Now begone with you."

As Harry dusted himself off and made a dejected retreat, he was glad that nobody else could see his despondent expression. He'd already suffered enough embarrassment today.

* * *

As it turned out, Vernon Dursley actually meant some of the things he said.

This was an unfortunate day, Harry decided, trudging home. Not only had he returned home empty-handed, loveless, rejected, and humiliated, but he had also, as per Mr. Dursley's apparently very real threat, been promptly fired and had another shower of saliva sprayed his way.

Stupid Vernon Dursley.

Stupid Cedric. Stupid everything.

Wearily, Harry pulled open his front door and slammed it shut. The house was dark save for the kitchen down the hallway, where he could hear his grandparents' laughter filtering through the open door. He leaned back and knocked his head back against the wall. He was sweaty, tired, and sore all over. He had gained nothing and had been made a fool of the entire day, and his pining over Cho had hit a painful speed bump.

He just wanted to sleep.

Just as he took off his coat and prepared to traipse upstairs, his mother popped her head out of the kitchen.

"Harry, darling, just the person I wanted to see! Dinner's ready!"

"'m not really hungry," Harry mumbled, both eyes still shut.

"Not even for treacle tart? I made a fresh batch at the bakery today. _It's still hot_ ," Lily hissed diabolically, nodding with eyes wide. " _You'll love it_." She paused, fixing Harry with a warm, no-nonsense gaze. "And it'll cheer you up."

And Harry Potter was definitely into that.

He slouched into the kitchen, for once not even caring that he was probably tracking dirt onto the kitchen tiles. Wordlessly, he slumped into the closest chair available and buried his head in his hands.

"What's got you down, bud?" Lily fondly carded a hand through Harry's hair as he entered and pulled up a chair.

"Nothing. I don't want to talk about it," Harry groaned into his palms. Then, after a while: "I may or may not have lost my job. And then Cedric made a fool of me."

"The one at the village shop? Working for Mr. Dursley? And that Diggory boy?"

"Mmm."

After a moment of silence, Lily reached over and rubbed a smudge of dirt from Harry's forehead.

"That's alright, Harry. Mr. Dursley isn't a very nice man, anyway ― perhaps it's for the better."

He nodded, focusing resolutely on his tart.

"And listen, dear," Lily's voice was gentle as it always was, and when Harry looked up he felt a wave of fondness rush through him as he took in his mother's knowing expression. She pulled him in for a hug. "I wouldn't worry about Cedric Diggory. Everyone I ever envied when I was a child all turned out mediocre. You were always so brave. So kind. _That's_ what'll make you stand out from the others."

"... Thanks, mum."

* * *

After showering and lying awake in bed, mind whirling with thoughts about Cho Chang and her quick smile, Harry finally came to the perfect decision.

Okay, maybe not such a good decision.

He found himself currently standing outside Cho Chang's house with a handful of small pebbles. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, he tossed one at Cho's ― he _prayed_ it was Cho's, at least ― bedroom window. It bounced off with a satisfying _plink_ that echoed down the empty street. Harry moved towards the lamplight and kicked at the pavement with his heel. A few moments later, the window slid open, and Cho's lovely face peeked out from between the curtains, the moonlight reflecting off her cheek.

"Cedric? Is that you?" she excitedly hissed into the night. Harry felt a pang in his chest, but bit his lip and continued.

"N-No, it's Harry," he faux-whispered back.

Cho made a visible effort to curb her disappointment at the revelation. "Oh. Hello, Harry. What on Earth are you doing here? Didn't I say―"

"Yeah, I know you said not to come, but I have something for you. A... A surprise." Heat flooded his body. Harry suddenly felt sheepish.

Cho considered this. "Oh, well," she said, suddenly a tad more spirited, "alright then. If you must. But my birthday isn't for another few weeks, you know. Wait a moment."

Harry was almost thrumming with anticipation as she shut the window and drew the curtains once more, so much so that he began hopping to and fro on the balls of his feet.

The front door quietly opened, and Cho slipped out, dressed in a cornflower blue nightgown and a long, translucent white cardigan. Daintily, she shut the door and tiptoed over, wrapping her arms around her middle. Her skirt flowed around her.

Harry furrowed his brow in concern upon seeing her. "Aren't you cold?"

"It _is_ a little chilly," Cho admitted with a strained smile, "but I can handle it."

Harry immediately shrugged off his overcoat and draped it around her shoulders. "Come on. It's this way. Careful."

He gestured to a hidden dirt path leading off the main road and stepped ahead of her, taking her hand. "Watch your step, milady."

The two trekked ahead, ducking under a branch, until they had reached the meadows bordering the wall. In the middle of the field was a picnic blanket laden with breads, fruits, and rare meats of all sorts, lit in the middle by an ornate candelabra. Cho gasped upon seeing the warm candlelight casting shadows across the grass. Fireflies fluttered idly in the grove. As they settled down on the blanket, Harry handed her a glass of champagne.

" _Champagne_? You put a lot of thought into this, didn't you? I've never had champagne before," Cho giggled, sipping at the glass. She made a face. "Agh, this is _delicious_."

"Glad you do," Harry smiled, suddenly feeling bashful.

"How did you afford all of this? Aren't you just a shop boy?"

"No, I'm not."

"Right," Cho sighed. "Look, I'm really sorry about that. And about earlier, with Cedric. Please don't take it to heart."

Harry only sent her a wry grin. "Water under the bridge," he scrunched up his nose in a failed attempt at jolliness.

"That's great. And God, you must've used up all your savings for this!" Cho exclaimed.

"Well, now that I'm not a shop boy anymore, I'm free to do whatever I want." Harry leaned backwards, gazing up at the stars. "I want to go out and explore the world, Cho. Then I can make more―so much more. I'm gonna make a _fortune_ out there, outside of Little Whinging."

"Gosh," she exclaimed, eyeing him. Harry couldn't help but be mesmerized by how her eyes scrunched up like crescent moons whenever she laughed. "You sound like Cedric when you say that, you know. He's really into traveling too. Did you know that he's crossing the channel to buy me a ring? _Across the channel_!" She laughed to herself and took another jaunty sip, as if she couldn't believe that going "across the channel" was even a real thing.

"Across the channel?" Harry repeated to himself incredulously. Then he turned back to Cho. "Cho, listen to me," he began sincerely, taking her hands in his and staring into his eyes. "Wait―a ring? W-Why is he getting you a ring?"

Cho broke into a coy smirk. "You know," she leaned in conspiratorially, "word on the grapevine's that Cedric's planning to propose to me on my birthday. Isn't that exciting?"

Everything that Harry had been planning to say came to a screeching halt. His brain began running into overdrive. _Cedric and Cho_? His worst nightmare had come true.

"He's going to... to propose? And you're going to accept?"

"Well, he _is_ traveling across the channel. You can't really say no to someone when they've sailed the channel for you, no?"

Harry remained quiet. "Cho," he set down his glass. "For your hand in marriage I would travel across all the continents. I would travel to Africa and get you diamonds the size of your fist. I'd bring you back ostrich eggs and peacock feathers. I'd go to Brazil and bring you back a golden parrot, or to China and bring you back a statue of you cast from jade. Heck, Cho―I would even travel to the Arctic and slay a polar bear and bring you back its head―"

"Harry," Cho burst into laughter, a tad ditzy from the champagne. "Harry, I'm going to stop you right there. A _polar bear's head_? That's a bit macabre, isn't it?"

"You get what I mean. I would, Cho. I really would do all of that, if only for you."

"Look, Harry," Cho frowned sympathetically. She hesitantly laid a hand on his bicep. "You and I―we're different people. People like you and people like me don't exactly... _match_ , you see? We aren't compatible. Look, I should get going―"

"Oh, no no!" Harry rushed. "Please stay. At least to finish the champagne."

Cho pulled her cardigan tighter around herself, contemplating. Finally, she pursed her lips. "Well alright," she acquiesced happily, plopping back down on the grass. She smoothed her skirt about herself.

They drank in silence; Harry downed his entire glass, letting the bubbly feeling of the alcohol tingle and seep through his veins. Another bout of stupid courage welled up within him.

"Cho, would you think it forward of me to kiss you?"

"Harry, you're sweet. You really are." Cho finished the remainder of her drink and proceeded to pour herself another. They both watched the stream of liquid in faux fascination. "But no. You heard what I said."

"I would do anything for your kiss, and you know it," Harry sighed wistfully, drawing a knee up to his chest and resting his chin atop it. He tilted his head so that his cheek rested against his kneecap. "Anything, Cho."

Together, they basked in the crisp evening air, with an audience of thousands of twinkling stars. The sweet summer night wrapped around them, and Harry Potter basked in his quiet humiliation at being rejected once more.

* * *

 **At the Castle of Hogwarts...**

Over a thousand miles away, the wind atop the mountain of Godric's Hollow was stirring up a troubled breeze. In the royal bedroom of Hogwarts Castle, the stronghold of Grimmauld and home to centuries of royal blood, the wizened old king of Grimmauld, Albus Dumbledore, lay on his deathbed, wheezing and shivering. The pallor of his skin had reached the sickly white only one on the verge of death is capable of reaching, and his wrinkles hung off him in bags. The end of his days had been plagued with incessant nightmares, and each night he barely slept a wink before startling awake, sweating and trembling in fits, reaching out to grasp something he no longer had.

The old man lowered his lids, a serene smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was the smile of a man who had seen and experienced more than enough to last him several lifetimes, let alone just one.

Dumbledore was right where he wanted to be.

What a day to die.

He was preoccupied with staring at his ceiling when there came a knock on his bedroom door. He did not turn his head.

"Come in."

A man with shoulder-length black hair and clad in robes an equally forbidding color swept into the room, cloak billowing in his wake. After poking his head out to see if anybody was in the hallway, he shut the door as quietly as he could and silently padded over to Dumbledore's bedside.

"Ah, hello Severus, old friend," the old man greeted laxly. "You've seen better days."

Severus Snape had, for several years, been a faithful informant and companion to the senile king, and was the head healer of the apothecary and caretaker of the herb gardens dotting the rocky mountain terrain in the castle. Over the years, Dumbledore had put him up to increasingly daunting tasks, and not once had the man failed him.

Albus couldn't say he regretted his calculations, even with his friend's life at stake. They had both known everything he did, he did for the good of the masses. Lessons like these the commonfolk could never learn. At times, you had to do what was best in the long run, regardless of how it pained you at the current time.

This was one of those times.

"I could say the same for you," Snape replied, but his voice lacked venom. "We've had quite a run."

"And now, finally," Dumbledore chuckled, turning his head the other way so he was gazing out the open balcony into the night. "It is time for the final act. You've been fine company for all these years, Severus. I couldn't have asked for more."

There was a lengthy pause before either of them spoke again.

"Should I call them in now?" said the Potions master.

Dumbledore only gave a sage nod. There was a depth of unspeakable sadness in his glassy blue eyes, about which Severus refused to remark.

A group of regally-dressed figures filtered into the room. Had there been another soul present, he or she wouldn't have ever seen a more motley bunch ― enough said. Solemnly, they neared, forming a semicircle as they gathered around the foot of the dying king's bed: the living on the left, the dead on the right.

"Ah," he rasped, smiling lightly at the group to his left, and addressed each one in turn.

"Councillor Pettigrew." Peter Pettigrew: short, stout man with no chin and a heavily protruding paunch. He had but a few tufts of greasy hair upon his head ― concealed by a strategically-placed Balmoral bonnet, buck teeth, and clumsy, stubby hands. He had an uneasy, overall ratty look to him. Then again, perhaps his attire made up for it.

"Governor Fudge." Cornelius Fudge: an aging, twitchy gentleman, dressed in charcoal grey robes that gave him an unnaturally austere look and that hung off him in lines so straight that he seemed carved from the mold of an officious man. He made for the perfect paranoid politician. Who knew Grimmauld needed one of those?

"Baroness Umbridge." Dolores Jane Umbridge. Textbook definition of a creep. She giggled, eyes black and round as buttons, and tilted her head. Her dress was puffy and a grossly saturated shade of mesh and pink. Severus shivered internally.

"Lord Lockhart." Gilderoy Lockhart, classic ladies' man. As per the norm, he was dressed in an outfit reminiscent only of the highest fashion, gilded with gold leaf engravings and bright, flashy colors and maroon red leggings. He flipped his curly golden hair and directed a dazzling toothy smile the old man's way.

On the other side of the bed, three others were dead, all of whom had met their untimely demises in more gruesome ways than the next: Lord Rufus Scrimgeour ― who had been a forerunner for the Institution of Magic until he had downed a bottle of poisoned mead; Minister Pius Thicknesse ― former minister until an unknown assailant had blinded him while he was asleep; and Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington ― formerly esteemed knight, framed for a crime and sentenced to death by beheading, only to have his head still attached to his body by a sliver of skin after being hacked at wildly 45 times. Gruesome indeed.

Finally, Dumbledore turned to Snape.

"Where is Tom?"

Instantly, a series of gentle knocks sounded behind the door, and a head full of smooth brown locks poked into the room. Speak of the Devil.

"I do apologize for my delay, Albus," came the svelte baritone of the Hand of the King. Tom Riddle oozed charisma, and was gorgeous and virile ― the epitome of the "tall, dark, and handsome stranger" ― and had been Dumbledore's most trusted adviser for a few years in the running. With his dark eyes, sharp angles, and alluring charm, he was no stranger to appreciative looks being sent his way from the castle maids. There was a certain _je ne sais quoi_ quality to him that drew others his way, like moths to a flame.

Finally, he was here.

"At least you're all here for my final wish to be heard," Dumbledore said pleasantly.

"We wouldn't miss your last moments here for the world, good man," Fudge supplemented, folding his hands together.

"Yes, Cornelius. Now, look out there and tell me what you see."

The group huddled over towards the window. From this vantage point they could see all of Grimmauld, stretched out below them, as far as the eye could see. There was no line between the land and sky from Hogwarts.

"Our people, Albus," replied the man, linking his fingers together behind his back. As he gazed out imperiously upon the rest of Grimmauld, he did not notice a certain someone edging his way. "Our nation's citizens, our country, our economy, our― _Aaaaah_!"

Planting his hand firmly in the middle of Fudge's back, Tom Riddle gave a forceful shove... and that was how Cornelius Fudge, leading contender for a spot in the crown's most prestigious government positions, died due to defenestration.

Dumbledore shook his head gravely, but said nothing. Back in his day, contenders fought to the death and only one emerged victorious, drenched in blood and ichor, the right leader for the throne. The lot nowadays were too pasty and lily-livered for anything but subterfuge.

With trembling hands, knuckles swollen and stick-like, he reached into his nightgown and pulled out a locket of weighty gold with a glittering green stone inlay. Carved into the gem was a serpentine "S." Instantly, all chatter died down as everybody stared at it in awe.

"The locket of Salazar Slytherin," one of them gasped in wonderment.

"You are correct," Dumbledore sighed, reverently eyeing the locket as he dangled it in clear view. "I have worn this for many years. It was passed down from our king before me, and to him, the king before him. The locket―" He twisted it to and fro. As he held it, the luster of the metal and the brilliant vernal glow of the locket began to fade. "―responds only to royal blood, or those it deems worthy to rule Grimmauld. For many years this has cast a heavy burden upon my shoulders; now that it is finally off, I feel freer than I have in years. This is why I have a task for you all. Listen closely.

"Old age has made me frank. Nobody else is around to contradict me or correct what I say, for time has taken everything I have not already lost. So this I will say: I am dying. My time has come, and the final matter I have yet to resolve is the matter of succession. I tell you this: I was not the best suitor for this locket at the time of my coronation. I am not of the purest magical blood, but as there are traces of the blood of one of the four founders of Hogwarts running through my veins, I am eligible. You are all magical folk. _We_ are all magical folk. The locket represents the livelihood of Grimmauld, do you understand?

"As it is, it is finally time for the locket to choose a new ruler. I believe you are all closest to me, and thus, you are the candidates I deem most eligible."

A sudden burst of strength overtook the dying king, and, with some difficulty, he pushed himself up and hobbled out of the bed. Painfully, he inched toward the open window, and held out his open palm. The locket began rising of its own volition, suspended in still motion in midair for a split second, before starting to spin in the palm of Dumbledore's hand at an alarmingly fast rate. For a moment he transformed back into the man he once been: towering and adroit, the build of a true king. The old man turned to his subjects.

"My last command." The locket was now a blur above his hand, spinning so fast that it could not be properly seen. "To the one who retrieves the locket, the heart of Grimmauld, I leave both the heartiest of regards and the rule of Grimmauld and all its domains."

A sibilant string of words he hissed, in a tongue long dead, reverberating off the walls with an eerie echo. Then he hurled the stone out of the window, into the air. As if it had a mind of its own, the locket suddenly stopped whirring, and shot off into the night sky. The group watching launched themselves forward in alarm, staring helplessly as the locket defied all reason and flew straight up into the endless night sky, only a glint among the countless stars. Dumbledore watched in satisfaction.

What nobody knew was that the locket really did have a mind of its own. It flew up and up, further and further above Grimmauld, accelerating and gaining momentum until it had caught fire, and blazed into the heavens above. It flew up so high into the sky that it reached the stars. But that was not enough.

The locket was traveling too fast, and it collided with a star.

Momentarily, the locket was lost to sight, and the group watching the spectacle ― both living and dead ― could only stare at the place they had last seen the stone. Then, the sheer force of the collision caused a burst of flame and light so bright that for a minute everybody in Grimmauld thought a new star had been borne into the sky.

The star fell.

And everybody watched in amazement as they watched the star cascade in a haze of fire to the Earth, streaking a line of glorious white across a deep blue sky. It tumbled further and further down, illuminating the night, and fell somewhere to the south and west of Hogwarts.

Dumbledore smiled, and closed his eyes in satisfaction.

"It has only just begun."

* * *

 **In the Hangleton Basin...**

The Grey Tower was the only thing that could be seen for miles around in the never-ending pastures lining the coldest, grimmest part of northern Grimmauld. It rose, a jagged black silhouette stabbing into the sky, protruding from waves of innocuous vernal green grass, unendingly into the sky, and seemed to touch the clouds as you got closer. Once you were close enough, you would see the basin.

Or, Hangleton Canyon, home to the ever-forbidding Hangleton Manor.

The Hangleton Manor was black all over, a solitary, decrepit estate in the middle of a basin hundreds of meters below sea level, and surrounded from all sides by rocky cliff faces. The entire inner level of the crater was smeared with a corpse-like grey.

The Hangleton Manor had once been beautiful, much like its inhabitants. But for miles around it emanated a deadly aura, a cold brush of death, and as one neared the edge of the craggy cliffs one would notice the gradual wilting of grass until all that was left was grey. The Grey Tower was the one sign to outsiders that anything unusual occurred here.

The castle was home to the Black sisters, the Lilim: daughters of Lilith, creatures of the underworld, spirits of the night. They were lovelier than day and more different from one another than yin or yang. In their youth, the three sisters had snagged the affections of many a man.

But their beauty had waned thousands of years ago.

The oldest: Bellatrix Black. In her prime she had hefty coils of thick ebony curls that splayed out about her like a splash of the night sky, and eyes that were the black of crushed beetles. She had been beautiful, but unhinged. Even now, with her skin sagging and peppered with the freckles of old age, and her hair long gone, leaving her almost bald, the same derailed, frenzied light in her eyes still occasionally sparked. She was the psychotic black of the palette, the epitome of dark.

The middle: Andromeda Black. Once upon a time she had been a fair young maiden, with a spring in her step and a charm in her sweet brown eyes, until she had fallen in love with a human named Ted Tonks. To put it lightly, his ultimate death had her grieving for years on end, and had turned her into a hag alongside Bellatrix: she waddled about, bones brittle and eyelids so layered that she fought to keep them open every day and lips yellower and thinner than papyrus.

The youngest: Narcissa Black. Where Bellatrix was night, Narcissa was day. Everything about her had once been pale and fleetingly delightful: her wispy, whitish blonde hair; her unnaturally bright blue eyes; her graceful white skin. Everything about her had once been as clear and frigid as a snowflake. As time had taken its toll on her, however, the years had whittled away her beauty, chipping at her grace: if you looked at her now, you would see no remnant of her haunting beauty but a desiccated husk.

These women had lived idle lives for hundreds of years, rotting away in an empire of dust and cobwebs, a ward of the darkness with hallways lined with portraits of people painted in severe countenance and agony, each talking little and shriveling up like saggy plums more and more each day.

Everything died in the Hangleton gorge.

Yet it was on this fateful day that for the first time in over three hundred years, there was a change in the wind.

Narcissa had been staring dolefully out of the window, eyes glazed over with the tendering of old age, when suddenly a glorious streak of light lit up the night sky and dashed across her view from behind the glass. Immediately, her gaze sharpened, the shadows falling away from her eyes.

"Sisters," she called out urgently, her voice frail and waning. She turned and scurried towards the two, who were perusing the lines of rusty cages they had lined up along the walls of the Great Hall. They turned slowly in response. "I have just seen a fallen star."

"A star?" Andromeda scoffed, gurgling. "Perhaps you were dreaming. Your cataracts are becoming a bother, Narcissa, shadowing your senses with fools' dreams."

"It was real!" Narcissa insisted, then pointed towards the line of cages. "Check the omens. I swear I am not mistaken."

"So be it," Bellatrix relented, and began running her finger along the bars of the cages. "Now, which one of you will be the _lucky one_ to show us the truth, hm?"

Inside, the creatures quivered.

"How about... _you_?"

Finally, she burst into a gleeful shriek and snapped one of the cage doors open, shoving her hand in and grabbing the pitiful little thing by its neck. Before it could even think to thrash around, she had already wrung its neck, stretched it across a chopping board, and sliced its head off with a blunt smack of a butcher's knife. As she slit through the carcass' middle and pulled the skin apart, staining her fingers red. The innards glistened back, contents slimy and viscous, as they spilled out onto the board. The three sisters crowded around the body, prodding around with their knives.

Andromeda squinted, leaning in and sucking in a deep breath. Then her eyes popped open, impossibly wide. She let out an ungodly screech.

"Look, quick! It's here! It's here!"

Bellatrix cackled and bent over the entrails in fascination. "At last!"

"About time," Narcissa grumbled airily, patting at her own cheeks. The wrinkled skin jiggled to and fro from the movement. "Three hundred years is too long a wait for a star to fall. I can't handle these horrendous wrinkles a second longer."

"Which one of us is to retrieve the star, then?"

"I suppose we'll have to draw for it," Bellatrix suggested slyly. Once more, three hands dove into the pile of innards, probing about among the lukewarm organs. Discreetly, Bellatrix opened an eye and made a clandestine move for the heart.

One old hand opened. "I've a kidney," said Narcissa.

"I've the liver," Andromeda smirked, darting a sideways glance at her younger sister.

"And I've his heart," Bellatrix proclaimed in false triumph, clutching the tiny entrail and squeezing, relishing the feeling of the warm blood seeping through her fingers. Disgruntled, the other two disposed of their guts.

"How will you be traveling, then?" Narcissa asked, wiping her fingers with a rag.

"I'll take the chariot, and use whatever or whomever I find on the way to draw it," Bellatrix faux-simpered, basking in the glory of her victory. For the first time in hundreds of years, she would be the first to relish the sweet taste of ethereal youth.

Andromeda grumbled. "Looks like you'll be needing a few years." The old crone hobbled over to a stack of cabinets and bent down, with much strain, to retrieve a small parcel wrapped in layers of paper and tied with three different knots.

Each sister undid her own respective knot. As soon as the paper came apart, a glowing white light bathed the black room in light.

"It's the last bit left from the last star," Narcissa remarked, feigning nonchalance. With difficulty she looked away from the remains of the glowing organ.

Bellatrix greedily snatched it up and swallowed it, anticipation welling up within her, and paced towards the ceiling-high mirror.

As the light disappeared down her throat, it seemed as if she shedding an old skin. Her wrinkles gradually smoothed out, and from her bald head suddenly sprouted locks of thick, luscious black hair, curling and unfurling down to her waist. The freckles and stretch marks dotting her skin and the sagging flab old age had gifted her miraculously shrunk into nonexistence. Bellatrix laughed, and instead of the old crone cackle they had become so used to, her peals of laughter came out fresh and throaty. In an instant, she was gone.

In her place stood a tall, lovely lady with milky white arms and smooth ebony curls. Her cheekbones were high, her eyes were dark and forbidding, and her pouting lips were a deep, alluring red.

Bellatrix admired herself in the mirror, unable to keep the smirk off her face, and unpinned her dress. Instantly the dusty garb fell to the floor, pooling about her feet as she admired her own body, sprightly and shapely and taut. In a fit of vanity, she turned to face her sisters and put her arms on her waist, winking and showing off her figure.

"Pffft," Andromeda snorted, exasperatedly rolling her eyes. "Don't stand there wasting your time."

"And don't bask in your glory too much," Narcissa sneered with narrowed eyes, barely able to keep the glint of envy from her eyes. "Now how will you catch the star? We don't have any more of the Floo powder―you used it all up two hundred years ago."

"There's more than one way to skin a cat, Narcissa dear."

Bellatrix sashayed past them and dug through the piles of clothes in the cluttered wardrobe ― for years now they had seen no point in dressing up when they had not the beauty and energy to do so any longer, and their once fair gowns and dresses had been left for ruin in piles. Once she emerged, clad in a wine red cowl gown that left little to imagination, she made a grab for a cleaver carved from ruby, its blade tip wickedly tapering off like a hook.

"Fear not, sisters; I will not fail. Once I retrieve the star―" A rich laugh burst from her lips, and a disturbing look entered her obsidian eyes. "―we'll _all_ have eternal youth once again."

"Remember not to use too much magic, sister. It wastes you away." The other two were still disgruntled.

"While I'm away, I expect you to clean up this hovel. I can't believe we've been living in squalor for all these years," Bellatrix tossed her head back arrogantly as Andromeda cinched the dress tighter around her waist and passed her her wand ― an ugly thing, twisted as the thicket and black as the night. She clenched her wand.

"When I return, we'll feast like queens."

* * *

 **On the edge of Little Whinging...**

"Oh! Look! A shooting star!" Cho breathed out, eyes fixed on the blanket of navy blue enveloping them. "Harry, it's beautiful."

Harry turned to look, still of two minds, and caught a glimpse of a trace of light darting across his periphery. Then an extraordinary ― albeit idiotic ― idea struck him: if he were to outmatch Cedric, he would have to do something spectacular in order to gain Cho's affections. He jumped at the prospect.

(In the future, he would look back on this moment and cringe at his foolishness, and incessantly wonder how his life would have been had he not made the decision he had made at that moment. Then again, that was a story for another time.)

"Are you really going to marry Cedric?"

"Well, he's going all the way across the channel. You can't really compete with _that_ , can you? It would just be rude of me not to accept." She giggled dazedly, clearly imagining her imminent future with the handsome Diggory fellow. Harry bristled, but refused to show it.

"Cho," he readily offered, and when she turned to him he earnestly took her hands in his. "For you I would travel farther than down south. For you, I would cross the wall, retrieve the fallen star, and bring it back to you."

"Now you're just bluffing. You can't cross the wall. Nobody can."

"No I'm not," Harry insisted. "I really would. For your hand in marriage, I would do far more than just that."

She considered this for a moment. "You would?"

"Of course I would! You _know_ I'd do anything for you."

The delighted beam she directed his way sent his heart thumping frenetically at record speed.

"A star of my own," she mused, thrilled, and couldn't resist another giggle. Languidly flipping her hair over her shoulder, she leaned back on an elbow and tipped her glass against Harry's. "Alright then. If you get me my star by my birthday, I'll grant you whatever wish you desire. If not, I'm marrying Cedric. Fair?"

Harry hastened to nod his agreement, unable to stop grinning. Internally, his mind was severely admonishing him for being such a dolt, but he kept smiling idiotically. He was so close to getting his happiness.

Now he just had to find a star. This was going to be a breeze.

Once he had escorted Cho home in a very gentlemanly manner, Harry set off for the wall, mind set and will cast in iron. As he briskly approached the wall, Filch straightened in his seat, eyes instantly alert.

"Where do you think you're going, boy?"

Harry decided to get straight to the point; he had no time to lose. "I need to cross the wall. It's an emergency," he explained matter-of-factly, inwardly crossing his fingers and hoping that Filch wouldn't press the issue. But Filch was Filch.

"What for, hm?"

"That's none of your business." Harry crossed his arms. "Please let me cross. I really need to, I swear. And I'll come back immediately."

"No can do!" Filch grunted as he stood, cracking a few joints for good measure. Behind him, Mrs. Norris yowled. "Go scarper back home, or I'll be tellin' your da!"

"That's not going to stop me," Harry said defensively. "I'm sure he'll understand."

"Pshaw! Like hell he will!" Filch waved him off absentmindedly. "Go home, boy. I'm sure you have plenty better things to do than laze back here." With that, he hobbled back to his chair and was reseated, his posture clearly indicating that he was in no mood for further conversation. A person who knew better would back away and wisely return home.

Harry was not one of those people.

In a flash, he made a run for the wall. The entrance was so close, he could _touch_ it with his fingert― _ow_!

A _thump_ and expert swipe under his feet had him tripping over himself and falling flat on his back, winded. Incredulously, Harry lifted his head up, only to see Filch toddle over and lean over him with a glare.

"No means no, you stubborn boy! You fooled me once―don't think I'll fall for the same trick again, James!"

 _James?_

Bruised, Harry staggered up, the stinging acquiescence stirring a rather maudlin expression unto his face. "Fine," he huffed, and dusted himself off. "Have it your way."

As he limped his way home, Harry's mind was filled with thousands of questions, all of which were about this _James_. When he got home, he and his mother were sure to have a chat.

* * *

This was _not_ going to be a breeze.

He was so screwed.

 _But Cho...!_ Ugh.

Harry cradled his head in his hands, huddled up underneath the covers and staring up at the ceiling. A series of soft knocks interrupted him from his plaintive thoughts, and he turned his head as Lily entered the room, holding a candle. The light tinted her face orange as she held the wick up high, ducking through the door in silence.

"Darling," she whispered, settling down at the foot of Harry's bed. Said person grumbled and rolled over, hogging the covers in a manner very typical of an angst-ridden teen. Lily nudged Harry's foot. "You're thinking about a girl, aren't you?"

Immediately, Harry rolled over and stared at his father, eyes wide and unblinking in the darkness. The candlelight danced in his irises. He sat up. "I have a question for you."

Lily frowned and placed the candle holder on the bedside table. "Alright."

Apprehension had Harry wavering. He had rarely asked about his father as a child, for each time he did, his mother would drift off in her own head for a while, and her expression would become so wistful and longing that he would feel alight with guilt for making her sad.

As if sensing his doubt, Lily only lowered her lashes and pinned him with a resigned smile. "Go on," she urged. "It's alright."

"What's this about my father crossing over the wall?"

Lily stiffened, and narrowed her eyes. "Excuse me?"

"The wall. _James._ Mum, I have too many questions and no answers."

"It seems like I have some explaining to do." Inhaling deeply, Lily dropped all pretenses. In the lamplight, it seemed as if she had suddenly aged several years as she hunched over in thought, elbows on her knees, shadows falling over her eyes. Then she stood, sighing. "It's about time you knew anyway. Come on."

Intrigue filled Harry. Throwing off the covers, he clambered up. "Where're we going?"

"The attic. I need to show you something. Try not to make too much noise," Lily whisper-shouted as they tiptoed through the sleeping house and up the splintering stairs. "Grandma and grandpa would throw a fit if you interrupted their sleep."

Obediently, Harry nodded and remained noiseless as they filtered into the cramped storage unit and inched the door shut. Lily sat daintily on a box and gestured for Harry to do the same. The boy plopped down in front of her and held the candle as she began rifling through the knickknacks and leather chests piled precariously atop one another.

"Ah!" she exclaimed after a while. "Found it."

When she emerged once more, there was a velvety cloak of the richest reds, tied with twine, bundled in her arms.

"What's this?"

"The truth," was the cryptic reply. Harry undid the clasp and unfolded the cloth. Inside the cloak was a crumpled note, hastily tied, among other smaller objects, but he felt instantly drawn to the parchment piece. Instead of asking more, he looked up at Lily for an explanation.

Lily ran a hand down her face. "I'm sorry to have kept all this from you. Your father's name was James Potter, and he came from the other side of the wall. That's what this was all about. One night, he came into town, and we spent a night together, and when I returned home, I tried to forget it ever happened, except I couldn't. Three months later, he came to me again, and we ran away together. We were happy, for a year, and I had you: while I'm ashamed this had to happen, I got you. And you were the greatest gift I have ever been given, Harry. You are a blessing―you know that, don't you? You made both of us the best thing we could be in this world: parents.

"But things began changing. There were horrors in the woods that nothing could have prepared us for, and on the Halloween after you turned a year old, the house was... attacked. Your father―oh Harry, he was so _brave,_ and―" She broke off, covering her mouth, but Harry knew the end to her sentence.

"Did he make it?" he ventured, voice barely a whisper.

"That's the thing, dear." Lily regained her composure. "James and I had the most wonderful connection. I haven't felt it in years, but somehow I―I don't think it's gone completely. For all I know..."

Numbly, Harry stared at the note in his hand, stunned. The endless ruminations, the constant made-up scenarios over the years... The final revelation regarding his true heritage all in one go was more than just a big shock.

 _And perhaps his father might still be alive._

"Go on," Lily urged. "I found all these in the pockets. Read it. He wrote it for you; I never opened it."

More to appease his mother than anything else, Harry cast a doubtful glance at Lily and unrolled the parchment. As he unfolded it, a small knotted bag fell into his lap, but he ignored it, instead gleaning the neatly curled script on the paper. If he tried hard enough, Harry could almost smell home still lingering on the paper.

 _Dearest Harry_ , it began.

 _Son, I wish it didn't have to come to this. Times are troubling, and peril stalks behind me at every turn. I fear what I must do to ensure that you and your mother are well. Please know that I love you more than anything, that I have only ever wanted what was best for you. Had fate allowed it, I would have traded all else for just a moment more with you and your mother. I'm sorry I did what I know I will do, for it is only a matter of time before we are parted; I pray that one day when you're older and you read this, you'll understand. My only wish is that we had more time together. But as that cannot be, instead, take my last gift to you. If one day you are in peril,_ _I find that the quickest way to travel is via Floo powder. It is in the small pouch, in the pocket. When you cast it into the hearth, remember to think of where you are headed, and only there. Someday, we will meet again. Your Father._

Once he was done, Harry could only fix Lily with a bewildered look.

"I need to find him, don't I?" he murmured.

Lily patted her son on the shoulder, and kissed him on the forehead, eyes endlessly sad.

"Harry, be safe. Be strong," was all she said. Harry managed to look grateful in spite of his confusion, and quickly gathered the remainder of the objects bundled in the cloak. Carelessly, he reached for a small satchel, fixing it onto his belt, and stuffed everything inside. Once he was done, he slowed, mind whirring, and turned to his mother once more, holding up the small bag of powder.

"How do I use this?"

"Step into the fireplace, take a handful, and think of where you want to go. Think of him," Lily sighed knowingly, and stood up as Harry ducked into the sooty hearth, coal bits dusting over his shoes. He took a few deep breaths and fumbled for a handful of the sparkling black dust, the clouds filling his nose and making his sinus itch like the devil.

"Good luck, love."

Harry only shared a knowing look with his father, nodded, and threw the handful down onto the coals. A sudden wave of cold green flame engulfed him, and in an instant he was gone, leaving Lily standing alone in the damp darkness of the attic. Shaking her head and smiling, she re-lit her candle, shook out the match flame, and headed back to bed, feeling a pressure lift off her heart.

* * *

 **Somewhere in the forests of Grimmauld...**

Even as nighttime fell, the woods were alive. Night owls rustled on the branches, small rodents scurried to and fro, going about their own business, and a lone cricket chirped in the undergrowth. All was still and silent.

Then there came a pulsing glow from above. Some animals stopped momentarily, thinking it would pass by, but the light only grew stronger, and larger, and suddenly there came a _whoosh_ above the canopy of the trees as something whistled by, stirring up a frightful breeze.

A blinding white light flashed through the woods as it neared the earth, and suddenly there was a tremendous _bang_ , like the crack of a mighty cannon, and for a split second all life paused in motion. A mighty gust of wind swept through the area, buffeting everything in its path with a rage, and the trees bent backwards against the tide. Pieces of dirt and debris flew through the air in all directions. Light flooded through the gaps between the trees instantly, as if a new sun had just been born, and then suddenly was gone as swiftly as it had come. Life suddenly died down once more as the commotion dropped. The trees righted themselves. The animals resumed their own business.

All was the same, except for the emergence of a large, smoking crater, still sizzling from recent activity.

At the bottom of this basin, had anyone looked, was a circle of light that looked like a shower of many tiny stars, scattering tiny bits of starlight. After a few minutes, the glow died down, leaving no trace of light, it seemed as if nothing had happened.

The only thing that could be heard, if anybody had been around, was a sudden soft gasp, followed by an equally soft exclamation of, "Ow," succeeded by a succinct, " _Fuck_ ," and finally accompanied by another tiny "Ow."

Then, once more, the night was still.

* * *

 **final note :** I feel like I've just cursed myself by making Cho and Cedric so mean... Please know that I have nothing against the two; they're just like this because the story requires for them to be. Also, I know you're supposed to _say_ where you want to go with regards to Floo powder, but I changed it. I originally really wanted to keep the Babylon candle idea, but alas. Anyway. I haven't proofread this, but please tell me what you think anyway! Writing thrives off of reviews and constructive criticism.


	3. le mystère de l'étoile

**Disclaimer :** again, I do not own any elements of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter franchise or Neil Gaiman's Stardust series.  
 **AN :** hey guys! Oh man, this chapter was really hard to write. There's just so much weird stuff going on, but I hope to get the story going. Stuff will happen! _**edit:**_ I don't think much was changed, worry not.  
 **Warnings/Other :** coarse language, darker themes, possibly graphic descriptions. Reader be warned: tread with caution.  
 **Summary :** Harry definitely does not regret his promise to Cho. Nope. And all of this is _definitely_ worth the heartache. At least, that's what he's telling himself. Meanwhile, the contenders for the throne plot begin their race against time; new players enter the game, likely with ulterior motives; and Bellatrix nears with every passing minute. _Or_ : Harry finds a star and some, and dark forces come their way.

* * *

 **Your Heart in Exchange for Mine**

 **by nightofowls**

Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven,  
Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, _Evangeline: A Tale of Acadie_

* * *

 _part 3: le mystère de l'étoile_

* * *

He had existed for thousands for years in a state of nothingness―not feeling, not experiencing, not _doing_. Only thinking. Only watching. Then something had happened. Everything had been normal, and then there was _something_ , and then he couldn't fathom what had happened next―

That's why, when he startled awake, eyes snapping open, he was assaulted with a wave of unfamiliarity. Sensations he had never felt before washed over him, pangs in his heart soaked through him, and suddenly he felt everything: the cooling breeze ruffling his hair, the jagged rock beneath him, the numbing pain in his leg, the unknown emotion that clamped down on him and didn't let go― _fear_.

Then he realized what was going on.

Something was wrong.

His vision cleared, and terror welled up within him as he saw the vast night sky towering over him, the stars bright and unblinking. For a while, he simply lay there, breathing alarmingly fast, not daring to sit up and let the reality sink in.

Home was far away, high in the sky above him. And he was all alone.

Finally, his panic having fully set in, he sluggishly pushed himself up into a sitting position and surveyed his surroundings. He had landed smack dab in the middle of a crater with a radius of at least a mile―had he done that?―and the ground he was sitting on was piled with detritus and marred flat with shock waves. If he squinted, around the crater edge he could see groves of trees, their leaves casting ominous black shadows on the horizon. Everything was dark, except for him (and even he had lost his usual shining luster). Not even the usual warmth the starry sky wrought could be found. He wracked his brain, trying to recall what had happened. Not even a moment ago, he had been minding his own business as per usual, and then there was just a flash, and then― _that's right! Where was it?_ Something clearly had knocked him out of the sky; otherwise, he would've still been up there, cozy and at home.

At that very moment, he caught a glint in his peripheral vision, and whipped around. Then he saw it, the damned thing.

Lying innocuously on the ground a few feet away from where he sat was a curious locket on a heavy silver chain. Frowning, he leaned over and reached out, snagging the hefty metal on his fingertips. Dragging it over and picking it up, he examined it as it idly twirled to and fro, dangling from his fingers. The damned thing was surprisingly dense.

The more he thought about it, the more indignant he got. All the chaos that had happened was because of this _infernal keychain_! He clutched the pendant in his hand, uncaring of the way the ornate edges dug into his palm as he fumed in silence. Whoever took responsibility for this thing would have to get it over his dead body, and that was that. With that, he slipped the locket around his neck, and it shifted, hidden under his clothing.

With an irritated grumble lodged in his throat (as well as the strange urge to burst into tears), he made to get up and start finding a way home―it would do him no good to sit there all night―when a blinding pain in his leg caught him off guard and had him falling back on his arse.

" _Fuck_! Ow! What the fuck?" he growled, glaring at his leg like the limb was at fault for being hurt. He pulled back with a grimace. Steadying himself and bracing for the shockwave of pain, he staggered up, finally standing on two feet, swaying. He began inching forward at a painstakingly slow pace.

This time, he wasn't at all prepared when something huge crashed into him out of nowhere.

* * *

For someone who'd lived a fairly ordinary life for the past nineteen years or so, Harry didn't seem to harbor the existential fear of death or the lashing tongue of anxiety that every wayfarer is bound to fall prey to at the beginning of a hero's journey.

Truth be told, he hadn't actually taken time to consider setbacks before leaping headfirst into adventure.

A million thoughts had run through his head the moment he stepped into the empty fireplace. Briefly, he wondered if this was even a good idea. What if his father was dead? What if he didn't think hard enough of him? What was he like? What if he didn't know who he was? What if Harry didn't recognize _him_? What if, _what if, what if_.

As the flames engulfed him in a blaze of lime green, Harry's mind blanked and his tongue felt like sand in his mouth. He had scrunched up his eyes, the shadowy image of a lively silhouette dancing across his eyelids and a telltale whiff of autumn and sandalwood at the tip of his nose, trying to conjure up any modicum of a memory, when it was over. In a split second, he found himself airborne, tasting the sweet night breeze, flying through the air with an exaggerated _bang_ , when suddenly he collided with something―or _someone_ ―

"Oof!" He felt the wind knocked out of him as he landed atop said body. He only heard a bewildered yelp before they collapsed into a heap.

" _Ah!_ "

They landed with a thump in a flurry of limbs.

In the haze of the moment, Harry blearily shook his head. "Dad?" he groggily mumbled.

Before he knew it, he was being shoved at with frantic hands. " _Dad_? Who the hell do you think you are?" came the crisp, enraged answer. " _Get off_!"

Harry bolted upright. "Oh God, I'm so sorry!" The words spilled out of his mouth as he fought to regain his composure, rolling off the unfortunate figure beneath him. "I'm so sorry, I was just looking for my mother and would you mind if I asked if you've seen here anywhere nearby or not because this is where the fireplace took me and I'm kind of a stranger to this place so I―"

Abruptly, he stopped talking. His eyes widened. Sprawled out on the ground beneath him was a boy who looked no older than he was, with otherworldly fair features, hair the color of starlight, and a pair of the most mesmerizing eyes he had ever recalled seeing, sparkling like quicksilver.

Said boy also happened to have a massive scowl on his face, casting shadows over his delicate features. Harry was stunned into speechlessness.

"Well?" The stranger raised a brow exasperatedly. "What the hell are you waiting for? Get your ugly mitts off me."

"S-Sorry," Harry apologized, looking suitably sheepish. Hurriedly, he reached over to help the boy up, only to have his hands batted away in frustration, and sat back on his haunches. "I really am. I thought I was meeting my father. Are you alright?"

" _Stupid muggle!_ " the boy hissed, narrowing his eyes. "You think that I look like your _father_?"

"A _muggle_?"

" _You nitwit_!"

It really wasn't fair that someone with such gorgeous eyes should even exist. Oblivious to the insult, Harry swallowed and stood up when he found himself forgotten. He paced about, tilting his head back to take in his surroundings. Save for the daring welcomes of the stars above, the area was desolate.

How on Earth did he even get here?

"I was thinking about reaching my father, and then..." Harry pondered aloud, rubbing his chin in thought. His eyes lit up. "And then I thought about Cho, and what it would be like if I introduced her to my parents... A-And then― _Oh_! And then I thought about the promise, and the star―"

He swiveled around. The boy was in the process of brushing dust off of his immaculate sleeves, apparently having dismissed Harry as a loon who obviously was to be ignored, but glanced up in alarm at the sudden movement, stilling. "What do you want?"

Harry stepped closer. "Did you happen to see a star anywhere nearby, maybe about just now? It should have landed here. After all," he glanced around, "we _are_ in a crater. That means..." He began pacing forward, eyes fixed onto the ground in concentration. "That means it should have landed _right here_ ―"

"No kidding!" the blonde boy threw up his hands in utter defeat. "You're right. _That_ ―" He gestured to a spot a foot away, dramatically swinging his arm around in a wide arc. " _That_ was the spot where it landed, and up _there_ ―" He jabbed a finger emphatically up at the night sky and pulled out a chain dangling from his neck, "―is where it was hit by _this bloody necklace_ , destroying _everything_ it had ever _known_ , and _here_ ―" He pointed to his own lap, incensed, "―is where it was hit by a _bloody flying moron_!"

Once he had finished his tirade, out of breath and a tad wild-eyed, Harry took a moment to process the rant. Dismissing the boy's last remark about being a "bloody flying moron," the realization of the statement finally dawned on him. His eyes goggled.

"Wait― _you're_ the star?" he gaped, incredulous. The blonde only grimaced patronizingly.

Then, narrowed eyes: "You don't say?"

"I just," Harry fell to his knees beside the blonde in his fervor, grinning uncontrollably in his earnestness, " _You're_ the star? Aha! I had no idea! You're so―"

"So...?" interrupted the (now that it was clearly established) fallen star, he leaned back imperiously, doubt clouding his eyes. Even so, Harry thought he could make out a tiny hint of mirth in those stunningly clear eyes, and hope blossomed within him.

"No, no, don't get me wrong! It's just―" He bit back a chuckle, a hand reaching towards his belt. "Never mind, never mind. I can't believe I've found you!"

"Excuse me?"

Then his smile died down a little.

"Um, I'd like to apologize beforehand for what I'm about to do, but please, _please_ understand," he beseeched, eyes shining.

As the star looked on, disconcerted, Harry swiftly grabbed his wrist and looped a chain of thin metal twice around it. The boy cried out in alarm, but it was too late: the moment it had been snapped on, the end of the chain had automatically melded together with the remainder of the cord. Harry was pleasantly surprised.

"What the hell?" he exclaimed desperately, tugging his wrist back fruitlessly. "What on Earth are you _doing_? Help! Somebody _help_! _This pervert's trying to kidnap me_!"

"No no no," Harry pleaded sincerely, trying to pull on the continuously extending chain. "Please don't! This is all a misunderstanding! Really! I just need to bring you back to Little Whinging and show you to the love of my life, Cho Chang! That's all, I swear!"

"Ha! Fat chance. Nothing says " _the perfect gift_ " like a kidnapped, injured person!" The star refused to budge, stubbornly yanking his wrist back. "You _creep!_ "

"I swear I'm not!" Harry protested. Sometimes he was a little too well-meaning for his own good. "Look, we can't be wasting time. I have to get back in less than two weeks' time, and I won't have you making things harder."

"Then you shouldn't have done this in the first place!" The star looked pointedly at the link on his wrist, and still refused to move. He petulantly crossed his arms. "Your move, arsehole."

Harry grimaced. "Alright, sit in a crater for all I care! I've had enough of you. I was _going_ to maybe help you out, but since you don't seem to want to cooperate and instead want to sit here in the middle of nowhere for the rest of eternity―"

"Get it into your big, ugly head: I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"Fine," Harry conceded after a moment of consideration. Really, it had been a tiring day for the both of them―he supposed, at least; he didn't really know about the star's night life―and each passing moment was a moment delayed. "You know what? I swear I'll send you back home the moment this is all over, alright?"

"How do I know you aren't just trying to take advantage of me?" Sharp as a whip, but with words more biting. "You're a shifty, untrustworthy fellow, and, frankly, I'm not liking you a whole lot right now."

Harry only lifted the tiny felt packet dangling from a hook on his waistbelt.

"I find that the quickest way to travel is by Floo powder." He raised an expectant brow.

As expected, the star's eyes grew impossibly large.

"Floo powder," he murmured, interest piquing in spite of his former reservations. Harry swore he could see ringlets of molten mercury in those eyes if he looked closely enough. For once, he felt as if he was slowly gaining the upper hand.

"Just so you know, I was _going_ to give what little I had left of it to you once I showed you to my love, Cho."

"Oh, please! That tiny little bit is barely worth one use. You only have one trip left."

"Well, be glad that I'm planning to save it for you! Unless, of course, you have another way to get home, in which case, do share."

It took centuries for the blonde to weigh his options.

A disgruntled sigh of resignation. "Fine."

Harry's expression broke into a grin. Looks like he made the right choice. "Alright," he began cautiously, feeling satisfactorily like they had just (albeit unwillingly) flipped to a new page in the book. "Let's find a way out of here, then."

* * *

They trudged forward, saying nothing. As the minutes dragged into hours, the silence became stifling. The chain readily lengthened as Harry sped up, his enthusiasm only growing at the prospect of already having found what he was looking for, and the star lagged a few meters behind him, deliberately trying to drag his feet and make their trip as frustrating and difficult as humanly possible for Harry.

He had no idea how long they'd already moved. All he knew was that they had finally made it out of the crater and into the woods, blindly stumbling along because not even the moonlight could penetrate through the thicket. He was all alone with an uncooperative star―who apparently was a _person_ ―traipsing through the unknown in the dead of a night, thousands of probable miles away from everything he had ever known.

Everything was going swell.

 _Juuuust swell_.

"You _idiot_! I can't _believe_ you!"

Not to mention that the star was _very_ talkative.

He happened to have a whole cache of insults and sarcastic remarks stuffed somewhere in his brain.

Somewhere behind him, there came a muffled curse, and another tug on the chain. Harry staggered backwards and bit back a sigh. In turn, he pulled on his end. The boy emerged from behind a gnarled tree trunk, swearing under his breath.

"When I get out of _this_ ―" The blonde gestured to the chain around his wrists emphatically, "―you'll _wish_ you never even _existed_ ―"

"Yes dear," Harry muttered absentmindedly, eyes rolling. "Look, we need to find a way south now. Back to the wall, alright?"

"You'll never make it. I'll watch you flounder in failure, you arse," the reply came as a hiss through gritted teeth.

Now that he was standing right in front of him, Harry could make out the flecks of almost blue in his irises. (It did not occur to him why exactly he was so drawn to those magnetic eyes.)

"For someone in your position, you're not being very encouraging," he frowned.

"Really? First I've been knocked out of the sky by a damned _pebble_ , my leg is probably dead, and I've been unwillingly taken by a complete stranger, who, I might add, is a complete _nitwit_!" the star seethed, sneering.

"Harry. Harry Potter."

"What?"

"You said that I was a stranger. I guess that was my fault―"

"Of course it's your fault!"

"―so I'm telling you. I'm called Harry. What about you?"

It was at this moment that the blonde wrapped his arms tightly around himself and pointedly looked away, airily lifting his head.

"Alright, fine! I'll just call you Blondie and be done with it," Harry threw up his hands, already too spent to argue any further. He continued walking, the star limping behind him with a scowl. "Look, we just need to get out of here, maybe even find a clearing―be careful, there's a root―and then sleep for a while―"

As he rambled on and on, the two passing countless more trees and the star looking suitably annoyed, the usual hum of life in the forest gradually dimmed out and faded. Harry initially dismissed this, concealing the silence with a hearty whistle, but even behind him the jerks in the chain became more frequent and stuttered, and eventually slowed to a bare inch a second. His companion had become uncharacteristically silent.

The air was ominously still, and the fog, illuminated vaguely by hints of moonlight, only cast a hazy veneer of violent cobalt between the blackened trees.

Gulping, Harry paused and wisely waited for the star to catch up with him.

"Do you feel that?" he asked, almost rhetorically. Even though his voice was hushed, the words seemed to echo through the forest, bouncing back and forth between trunks and leaves. Now, the star was standing so close beside him that Harry could almost feel the warmth emanating from him.

"I don't know what you're talking about." The reply was quiet and on edge, and when Harry looked up he noticed how the blonde's eyes were discreetly darting to and fro, an unsettled look to them. He understood that. These woods were giving him the chills.

"What's wrong?" he asked anyway as they stepped up a particularly steep, mainly in an attempt to dispel the eerie calm that had fallen over them. The forest was too quiet. There wasn't a single sound drifting in the air save for their footfalls as they tripped over roots and pockets of grass and foreign plants.

" _You_! You've gotten us lost, nimrod. How you've lived with a potato for a head for this long escapes me. I'm sure you'd thrill scientists everywhere with your pumpkin of a face."

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know― _ouch_!" Harry cursed under his breath as the blonde's foot suddenly connected with his shin, and he tripped over a particularly thick shoot, tipping forward headfirst and unwittingly dragging the other with him. Just as he precariously righted himself, he felt the star collide with his back, and the two fell down the slope, rolling through the blackness.

"God!" Harry huffed as he fell flat onto his face for the second time that night, landing himself a face full of dirt and mud and twigs. Not a moment later, a weight crashed on top of him, knocking the breath out of his windpipe. What an unpleasant surprise―although surprisingly, the blonde was nowhere near as heavy as he had expected ( _not that he had expected anything, really, but still!_ ).

"God! Don't you ever watch where you're stepping?" Blondie―Harry didn't think it suitable to keep mentally calling him "star," especially since he in no way acted like how he expected one of those should act―seemed particularly aggrieved by the dirt stains on his clothes and in his hair. Struck with a dash of inspiration, he spitefully wiped his hands on Harry's shoulder.

"Hey! _You're_ the one who started it," Harry pouted, scowling into the darkness, knowing that Blondie wouldn't be able to see his expression and hit him with another dirty ( _literally_ ) move like that.

As he clambered up and brushed the dirt off his coat, a shadow abruptly cut across the corner of his eye. Harry stilled, still in the process of straightening. Obliviously, Blondie was making slower progress as he mumbled something about his leg and struggled to stand. When he looked up at Harry, he frowned.

"What's gotten into you all of a sudden?"

Harry didn't want to spook whatever might be out there, weaponless as he was, but he couldn't stop the sudden spike of fear that struck his heart. Something was out there; he knew it.

"Well, this is a first." Beside him, Blondie rolled his eyes. As reserved as the remark was, Harry could still notice the jab behind the words. "Scared, Potter?"

That was the first time the damned star had acknowledged who he was. A small, quiet part of Harry's brain felt very funny upon realizing this and thinking of this as a small victory, but he shushed it and bid it hide away. Instead, he felt a grin threatening to break across his face, and stifled it.

"You wish," he muttered back, eyes fixed straight ahead at the shadows. He turned his head slightly so he could make out Blondie's silhouette out of his periphery. "Stay behind me, and stay quiet."

"What's going on?" the blonde demanded, frowning, but did so all the same.

Together they inched forward warily, careful not to step on anything that could give away their position. _Get down_ , Harry mouthed, and tentatively tread forward, bypassing another group of trees.

They had happened upon a small clearing in the woods. The ground was compact, littered with sharp stones and dried-out shrubs, and the moonlight shining through the dense canopy of the trees flooded through and cast light upon a small mound a few yards away from him. Harry squinted.

Then he saw it.

First he noticed the emaciated legs, the chipped hooves, the matted fur, splayed grotesquely at unimaginable angles. His gaze made its way up the limbs, and fell upon the gaping wound slit through the neck, the slash marks on its horn. The poor creature's eyes were still open, frozen in a look of permanent terror, and a thin stream of bloodied saliva had begun forming a puddle underneath its head. Its mouth was open in a silent scream, twisted and dotted at the edges with froth. A figure in black rags was hunched over the unicorn's abdomen. Harry sucked in a sharp breath, unable to contain his dismay at the sight. Behind him, Blondie, who had inevitably caught sight of the scene over his shoulder, almost bumped into him again.

Harry felt rooted to the spot, fright paralyzing him where he stood. A flash of pain suddenly flared in his temple, and he clutched at his forehead with a groan. The figure in front of them stiffened, and turned its head. Its hood draped over most of its face, but what he could make of the rest was repulsive. The creature's face was a chalky white, and its grisly maw was dripping with the sparkling gem blue of unicorn blood, which had been liberally smeared all over its chin. Said prey's stomach was a complete mess―even Harry couldn't dwell on that thought for more than a few seconds without feeling queasy, so he tried his best not to look.

Blondie was stricken. "What is that?" His voice was barely a whisper.

"What the hell?" It circled around the corpse and rose to its full height, its gait phantasmagorical. It was truly the stuff of nightmares, shrouded in the deadened mist of the forest, a harbinger of death and pestilence. "Blondie, stay behind me."

" _Blondie_?" It was barely a perplexed murmur.

Harry's breathing quickened as the figure neared, the pain in his head exploding against his skull. Gritting his teeth, he held an arm out and shoved the star behind him. Two nervous hands gripping his forearm pulled him back slightly as the creature steadily advanced on them. Its ghastly hands reached out, its fingers seemingly carved from rot, bony and disfigured.

 _He was going to die_.

 _He was going to get killed by a blood-sucking monster_.

Harry scrambled backwards, only to back into a tree trunk. The star yelped as he fell, his foot twisting on another one of those infernally damning roots, and shuffled as far away as he could manage. Yet the creature kept getting closer.

And closer.

 _And closer_. Harry felt its foul breath ghosting over his cheek, and scrunched his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable.

* * *

"A toast to the former king." Dark eyes glinted over the rim of the crystal champagne glass.

Back in the Castle of Hogwarts, the group of contenders for the throne were currently gathered in the throne room. Among them, the only one not standing courteously in front of the pyre was Tom Riddle; as a matter of fact, he was currently lounging back on the throne, legs crossed and resting his elbow comfortably on the armrest, looking for all the world like he belonged there. He swished the champagne in his glass languidly.

In entered old priest Frank Bryce, who inconspicuously passed about goblets on a silver platter. The poor man had walked about looking like he was only half alive for most of his years serving under the king. At least he was a relatively mild-mannered priest. Dull, but perfectly manipulable.

As each person in the room took a goblet, Pius bowed and retreated to a shadowy corner with the remainders.

"There there, Frank, good man," Riddle called, raising his glass. "You too. There's a lad." Once he saw to it that the old man also was nervously clutching a drink, he cleared his throat. "A toast to our king, Albus Dumbledore. Long did he reign."

"Long did he reign," the others mumbled dutifully.

Behind them, the ghosts mournfully looked on. Dumbledore, who had now cheerily joined them, pale and ungainly in the way he had died but otherwise unmarred but by age, almost snorted at the group, all of whom looked reasonably subdued. He knew that deep down, they were all teeming with foolish plans of fire and death. Nasty lot, they were.

"In the name of Albus Dumbledore, who will be forever remembered as the benevolent monarch under whom widespread peace and prosperity had free reign over the kingdom of Grimmauld, and whose wisdom shall be engraved in the scriptures for years to come. I shall see to it," Tom raised the glass, his black pupils dilating as he scanned the room. "To Dumbledore."

"To Dumbledore," came the resounding exclamation. Everybody in the room downed his or her drink, while Tom slyly glanced about and, upon seeing no spectators, poured the contents of his glass onto the floor beside the throne. The rich red liquid seeped languidly down the stone cracks, filtering down the steps. Then he waited.

"In our king's absence, our country is left without a ruler until the heirloom is found," he began once everybody's goblets had been placed elsewhere. "As such, prior to his death, Albus mandated that I rule in his stead for the time being." With this statement hanging in the air, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a scroll of parchment, holding it up like a torch for emphasis.

"I am the only remaining heir of Salazar Slytherin, one of the founding fathers of our nation. I was born to rule this kingdom, and I shall do so without fail. I do hope you all understand. I'll humor the old man. My time has come. I will be the one to find the locket first, and I trust that none of you will interfere with my efforts."

"Absolutely not, my lord," Pettigrew was at a loss for words. The others sat in silence.

"Peter, you are _very_ agreeable," Tom smirked, and waited as the man stuttered.

As if in reaction to this, there came a discordant clatter from across the room, drawing everybody's attention. Frank's eyes had suddenly widened, the whites of his eyes bloodshot and his pupils enlarging so drastically they drowned out any of the color in his eyes. He coughed once. Then he coughed once again. Then once more. Then he fell into a fit of heaving coughs, each punctuating the still air as everybody turned to him in alarm, hand reaching up and scrabbling at his throat.

"M-My l―" he tried, but his vocal cords did not cooperate and seemed to jumble themselves up in knots. Frank's nostrils flared. As he coughed, tremors wracking his body, specks of blood flew across the marble floorboards. Spasming, he fell to his knees, hand reaching out for Tom Riddle in desperation. "Ple-Please..."

The ghosts were now crowding around his fallen body in morbid fascination. Sir Nicholas leaned in close.

"Oh dear, his face is turning purple, the poor man," he remarked excitedly. "I wonder if it's as painful as the chopper."

"Don't wait up just yet," Pius Thicknesse groused, twirling a strand of his gray hair thoughtfully and jutting his chin out at Pettigrew. "Something's wrong with him, too. Probably poison. Idiots."

Pettigrew's eyes grew large also as realization dawned upon him, and he glanced at his now empty goblet on the table. An unfamiliar sort of parched dryness began welling up in the base of his throat, clawing at the sides of his trachea, and in horror, his hand came up to rest over his bobbing Adam's apple. "Oh dear," he croaked out, voice suddenly scratchy and eyes suddenly watery. The councilor whipped his head in the old priest's direction watching as the old man fumbled about his robes with considerable effort. A nondescript brown stone that looked oddly like a chunk of ginger tumbled out onto the floor.

Councillor Pettigrew leaped into action. With a mighty lunge, he charged towards the dying priest, fixated on the innocuous brown lump, and wrenched it from Frank's fingertips a mere second before it was too late. Without stopping, he shoved the stone into his mouth and forced it down, and quickly the fit subsided. A wave of relief washed over him.

Frank, on the other hand, lay on the floor and choked to death, spitting and bleeding and trembling in outrage at the unfairness of the world, with a crowd of spectators. What a way to leave.

Tom only dangled his empty glass between his fingertips nonchalantly. "It seems you can be a remarkably fast thinker, Councillor."

Peter only managed a bare sniff, glaring balefully at the king's former adviser. "Poison," he pointed out unhelpfully, implicitly demanding a confession. "You were trying to poison us, but it didn't work."

"I was telling you that!" The ghost of Minister Thicknesse threw his mangled arms up in frustration, his one remaining eye rolling towards the heavens. "These people never listen to me, and look what happens to them."

Sir Nicholas scoffed. "You aren't really one to talk, Pius. I'm surprised the _thickness_ of your skin didn't save your hide." He proceeded to chuckle to himself about his little joke.

Behind Councillor Pettigrew, the ghost of Rufus Scrimgeour peeked over his shoulder. "You're lucky, you ingrate." He sounded disgruntled, but was not heard anyway. "At least you didn't die. Those damn councilors always have it lucky."

"Tell that to poor old Frank Bryce," Tom breezed back. Servants had already filtered in and carried the corpse out of the room, leaving only a minuscule puddle of bloodied saliva gleaming on the ground. He sighed, feigning sympathy. "It's your fault, really. The rest of you just didn't choose the right cups. You allowed an innocent man to die, and for what?"

He rose, blood red cape fanning out behind him as he descended the stone steps, tossing the goblet to the side. The loud clatter it made upon hitting the floor had everyone jumping, jittery.

"Besides," he remarked airily, looking at his cuticles just for show. "I thought I'd give Severus' new potion a try. Looks like it works, doesn't it, Bryce?"

The blood around the corpse had stopped flowing, and the puddle edges were already drying. Tom laughed.

"You lot, flitting about the throne like a swarm of flies. I'll see you at the finish line, where you'll bow before me and hail me as sovereign of the kingdoms of Grimmauld. To the winner goes _all_."

With that, he strode out, robes flying and mind whirring.

For the hourglass had been upended, and the sands of time were running.

* * *

A series of savage barking broke the peace of the forest, and Harry's eyes snapped open. In the distance, a circle of light readily approached, and another large creature at least as tall as Harry's waist bounded into the clearing, snarling and scrabbling at the dirt. Spooked, the figure in black instantly withdrew and took off into the night with its robes flying, leaving Harry heaving with relief. The pain in his head subsided, and he felt his knees trembling.

The newcomer padded over, its demeanor changing. From what he could see in the gloom, it was an oversized black boor hound with wrinkled, doleful eyes and a saggy, drooping mouth. Its tail wagged excitedly as it nudged Harry's leg and panted, drooling over his shoe.

Harry frowned and crouched down so they were eye level. "And who might you be?" he asked, heartily grateful, and warily stretched out a hand. The dog, in turn, enthusiastically slobbered all over his hand and butted his palm with his wet nose.

" _Fang_!" someone bellowed in the distance. Harry's head shot up in alarm, but, undeterred, the dog continued nosing around him. The ring of light neared until it spilled over the trees, casting shadows between the trees, and a silhouette emerged up ahead.

The new arrival stomped into the clearing, and Harry stiffened. He was _gigantic_. Towering over them was a man of almost twelve feet, broad and bulky, with a mop of wild black curls that fanned out from his head. He was clumsily dressed in layers of thick leather overcoats and large boots, and his bushy brows and thick beard gave him a look that told any sane man he was not one to be messed with.

He held up his lantern, and in the lamplight, his black eyes glinted. "Who're you?" he gruffly asked, his West Country brogue thick on his tongue. Then he noticed the hound, who had moved on from Harry and was currently sniffing around Blondie. "Fang! C'mon over 'ere, boy."

Happily, Fang obliged, licking the star's face one last time before trotting over.

Harry had to gulp down a breath before speaking. "Um, my name's Harry Potter, and this is―" He gestured to the star, only to fall short. "―uh, my friend. We're heading for the wall. W-What's your name... sir?"

"The wall?" There came a grunt. "What in the Devil're ye doin' all the way up north then, lad?"

"I came to get something for the love of my life. Now that I've found it―" Pride welled up in his chest, and he ignored Blondie bristling behind him. "―I need to get it back to her before her birthday, which is in about two weeks or so."

"In the Forbidden Forest?" the man frowned suspiciously, eyebrows concealing his eyes. "What could ye possibly want over 'ere?"

"A... plant." Harry blurted out the first thing he could think of. He didn't miss the quick glance the stranger directed towards the fine chain that was wrapped around Blondie's wrist. He winced, preparing for the inevitable onslaught of questions and possibly murder weapons. "S-Snowbells?"

Instead, the giant man burst out into hearty laughter. "That's a good one, sonny! Once had a lass meself; got her snowbell flowers all the time. Made her right happy."

Harry nervously laughed with him.

Then the large man turned serious. "I saw summat over this way. Didn't get a close look. What was it?"

"I was actually hoping you'd be the one to tell me that, sir," Harry only said politely. He gestured to the slaughtered unicorn. "It did that."

The lantern light cast over the slain beast, illuminating the glittering blue blood that had drenched the surrounding ground. The large man sucked in a breath and lumbered over, trepidation digging into the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He squatted by its side. Harry and Blondie tentatively followed, and the latter fell to his knees by the corpse, shakily stroking its tangled hair with an unending sadness in his eyes.

"Is it still alive?" Harry asked. All he got was a grave shake of the head as the man felt for any sign of life.

"It's too late," Blondie whispered unhappily.

"It's a terrible crime to slay a unicorn," the man sadly shook his shaggy head, "really terrible thing t'do. Its blood'll keep you alive even if yer on the brink o' death, but it comes with a price. If ye slay something so pure, the moment you taste the blood, yer a goner. It's a curse. It takes away half o' yer days. Ye live like the walking dead. Who'd wan' to do that?"

He held up his hand to closer inspect the ichor, and his fingers were soaked with the viscous beryl fluid, thickly dripping onto the ground. Harry was transfixed by the way the blood glistened in the light.

The four of them stayed there for a while, the atmosphere tense. When he glanced over at Blondie, he couldn't help but notice how the star was almost lovingly combing through the unicorn's mane and stroking it behind the ears, unaware of the attention.

Finally, their new acquaintance got up, grunting, and dusted himself off. He turned to the two stragglers.

"'m goin' to retire for the night. You two look like ye've been through a lot today, and there's still a _long_ way t'go if ye want to reach the wall anytime soon." He clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I've lodgings and some food. Ye look starved. Ye don't wan' to be out here when the wolves wake."

Gratefully, Harry ran to keep up, thoughtlessly tugging the reluctant Blondie up and along after him. Oddly enough, the latter did not seem to form any verbal complaints, and remained sullenly silent the entire trip, trailing behind him. He chose not to dwell too much on this.

As they trekked onward, stepping over fallen logs and decaying tree remains, the ginormous man introduced himself. His name was Rubeus Hagrid, but Harry could just call him Hagrid, he said. He was a half-giant ― hence his size and gait ― and had been the gamekeeper at Hogwarts Castle for a time, until the king's chief adviser Tom Riddle had had him relocated to the keep of the Forbidden Forest a few years back for reasons unknown ― probably because of an unfortunate encounter with another creature, which was another story altogether. He had a passion for animals and creatures of all kinds, and, _blimey_ , would he love to have a dragon.

Harry felt completely at ease falling in pace with Hagrid and Fang, who occasionally hung back to accompany Blondie. There was something compelling about Hagrid and his inner heart of gold that beckoned to him.

They maintained light, hearty conversation until they had finally cleared through most of the forest and broken through the undergrowth. A lone hut complex stood at the edge of the forest, its lights ablaze. Around it lay a few pumpkin patches, teeming with pumpkins larger than Fang, and several groves of strange vines bordering the property and the Forbidden Forest. Harry almost wept at the homely sight (his stomach had long been screaming obscenities at him).

As they entered, a toasty gust of air enveloped him in a tender embrace, and even though it wasn't the biggest house he had ever seen, it was fantastic. The layout was relatively simple: the stove and kettle against the wall, the crossed windows, the stone fireplace, the round wooden table, the bedrooms and other adjacent rooms joined only by a doorway ― it all was so (warm and welcoming), and Harry felt like he could slouch down in a chair and never get back up again.

Hagrid pulled out two chairs and began fiddling about the kettle, which was whistling cheerily. "Go ahead an' take a seat, you two," he said, and Harry happily took his invitation. Blondie uncertainly took his seat directly across from the table, staring at the wooden surface and pointedly not looking at him. Promptly, the half-giant placed two large yellow plates in front of them.

"I made pound cake earlier," he explained keenly. "Would ye like a drink? I've a fine set of Ogden's."

Even though Harry had never ever remotely heard of anything of the sort, he nodded through a mouthful of cake, slightly misty-eyed. He'd already faced the inevitable today: being embarrassed in front of his love, crossing the forbidden wall and finding a star, seeing a unicorn, narrowly escaping possible impending doom with said star, meeting a half-giant. Surely a drink wouldn't kill him. As the amber stream began filling up, his focus switched to the other guest.

Across from him, Blondie was solemnly pushing his food around with his fork, only nibbling on tiny bits of crust. In all honesty, a small, spiteful part of Harry found it rather endearing. Absentmindedly, he raised the mug to his lips, gaze still fixed on the star, and decided against interrupting whatever thoughts were running amok inside his head.

After bustling about for a while, Hagrid shook off his oven mitts and turned off the stove. Carelessly tossing the mitts aside, he turned to the seated pair.

"Alright, I'm goin' to retire fer the night," he declared, rubbing his hands together. "The two of you'll have to make do with that room right there―" He pointed to the respective doorways. "―and I'll be right in 'ere, if ye happen t'need anythin'."

"Thank you, Hagrid." Harry hoped the sincerity in his voice showed. He had no idea what they would have done if Hagrid hadn't showed up. The man waved off his thanks as he ducked under the door frame, accompanied by Fang.

"Don' worry about it. 'Night, lads."

Once his door was shut, silence instantly fell upon the two remaining occupants of the hut. Harry swallowed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"What's up with you?" he asked Blondie, now that Hagrid was out of earshot. Upon seeing the dully inquisitive look on the star's face, he continued. "You haven't been saying much for the past hour or so."

When there came no reply, his smile faded. "Is this about the unicorn?"

Blondie glared at him and crossed his arms. "What does it matter to you? You're a heartless wretch, after all," he snapped, and looked away.

"Look, I get this must be hard for you, being on Earth for the first time―"

"Oh shut up! You don't get _anything_!" The blonde threw up his arms in frustration and pointed accusingly at Harry. "It's _your_ fault that we're stuck in this predicament at all. It's your fault that I'm being dragged around and showed off like a slab of meat because of _this_ ―"

He held up the chain still wrapped around their wrists. "I'm tired, and alone, and I have no chance of getting home, _ever_ , because―let's face it―you're a complete numbskull and I can't believe you've survived for so long, and I'm being subjected to seeing horrible things I wish I'd never seen before with an untrustworthy stranger who'd probably rather save his own hide than even think of others for even a _second_!"

"You've got to be kidding me." Harry ran his palms over his face, dragging his eyelids upwards so they didn't fall shut. He was tired of this. He was tired of everything. Today had been―let's face it―an absolute fucking catastrophe.

First there'd been Vernon Dursley. What a tool. Harry was glad to be rid of him forever. Then there'd been the fiasco with Cho and Cedric. Even now, he could feel his heart thump painfully at the thought of those two together.

And then there'd been Cho's swift rejection. No matter how much he tried to put it off, it still smarted terribly. It had so blatant. It had _hurt_. And now he was here, thanks to that―not that he was complaining, no. There'd been the truth about his father―and he hadn't even _found_ his father. Instead, he'd found a stubborn, bossy star.

What a trade, indeed.

Instead of the happy reunion he'd expected, he had landed himself with Blondie. That stupid star, stupid, _stupid_. _Stupid_ , making Harry's life harder. Stupid, saying things that made him redder than a schoolgirl, that made him want to punch that flawless cheekbone.

(And then there'd been the earlier fiasco, where he'd almost died. He couldn't get the petrified fear in Blondie's eyes or the relentless clamminess of his own hands out of his head.)

Now he had landed himself here.

All in all, Harry was severely pissed.

And when he was frustrated, he tended to blurt out things he didn't mean.

"You know what?" he ground out, unable to stop the words from spilling out. They were an avalanche, and he was powerless to stop their course from wreaking havoc. "I'm glad you're here. Knowing you, you don't deserve a place up there."

He stopped, but by then it was too late. He couldn't take it back. He couldn't go back in time and unsay the words he had just said. He could only watch as the words floated in the air above them and sunk like stones.

Blondie looked like he had been physically slapped in the face. Harry wanted so badly to look away, to avoid seeing how he caused Blondie's face to fall even further, but found that he couldn't. He stood, the chair scraping against the tiles.

"I―"

" _You_ ," the star seethed at Harry, very noticeably upset. " _You_ started all this. And I know you can't finish it. So thank you for that, you numbskull."

With that, he stormed out of the hut, shoving the door open and slamming it in Harry's face. The chain lengthened considerably, snaking under the door jamb and into the open night. Harry did not follow, still not registering the crumpled expression on the blonde's face. It bothered him to no end.

Sighing, he made for the door and threw it open once more, only to see the star stomping towards the edge of the forest. Harry's eyes widened, and he rushed down the front door steps.

"What on Earth do you think you're doing?" he called, but Blondie barely turned his head, only continuing to stalk away. "It's dangerous so late at―"

" _Leave me alone_!"

"You can't be serious!"

"Fuck off!" he spat, and took another step towards the forest, not looking where he was going and accidentally stepping into a mud patch. Neither of them noticed the patch of vines that were growing unassumingly by their feet.

Before either of them could blink, the winding vines had shot up and wrapped securely around Blondie's ankles. He yelped unintelligibly as the thick stalks snaked upwards, coiling around his arms sinuously. Harry turned just as the blonde was hauled off the ground and upended, suspended in the air by his ankle, crying out in alarm.

For a minute, Harry only stared at him, gaping. The sight of Blondie, who had been frowning and stubborn all night, now dangling upside down in midair, suspended by climbing stalks, had him in stitches. He couldn't help the peals of laughter that suddenly burst from his mouth.

Now it was the star's turn to stare. "What are you doing?" he gasped, swinging slightly. "Cut me down, you bastard!"

Harry tried to stifle his laughter. "What do you mean? I had nothing to do with it. Really. I swear."

Blondie only closed his eyes in frustration, face coloring. He crossed his arms, trying to look the picture of solemnity. "Get. Me. Down." He opened his eyes, desperation making his eyes glint and making his cheeks flushed. Then, he forced out in a manner that seemed to pain him: " _Please_."

"Alright, alright." Harry sighed and jogged over so he was standing directly under Draco. He looked up, speaking slowly, "Look, I'm sorry about everything that happened tonight, alright? Believe me, today hasn't been the best day for me either. I want you to know that I'm sorry."

"Just cut me down first!" Blondie's voice was strained. Experimentally, he twisted about, but the tendrils only wrapped tighter around him.

"I don't have a blade that's big enough," he replied, patting the stalks.

Before they could continue, the door to Hagrid's hut was flung open, and Hagrid poked his bushy head out.

"What's goin' on?" He tramped out, shrugging his coat on. "You two still up?"

When he neared, his pace slackened. He held up his lantern to survey the damage done, and squinted. For reasons unknown, he did not seem too surprised.

"Had a run-in with the Devil's Snare, did you? You shouldn' be out walkin' alone at night. Try not t'move so much, lad." He crouched down and grasped at a few stray vines.

"The Devil's what?" Harry couldn't help but ask.

Hagrid turned to him. "Devil's Snare. Great fer settin' traps in the forest, scared of the sunlight, gets tighter the more ye move. Nasty ol' thing."

Harry watched in awe as Hagrid expertly maneuvered the stalks. He had no idea what the man was doing, but within moments the vines had loosened and Blondie plummeted to the ground with a short, high-pitched squeak. Hagrid caught him right before he smacked against the ground, and held him up curiously.

"Are ye alright, son?" he inquired, propping the blonde up so they were face-to-face. Blondie swallowed and averted his gaze. Hagrid relented and put him down. "Let's go back inside. Ye might wan' to get cleaned up. You too, Harry."

With that, the three of them trudged back inside. The blonde lagged behind once again, staring fixedly at the grass below his feet. Before reentering the hut, he turned to gaze up at the sky. It struck him once again, as he watched his countless brothers and sisters, how utterly alone he was in this world. It was a sobering thought.

He quickly looked away, pushed all somber thoughts from mind, and reentered the hut.

* * *

All was quiet in the Forbidden Forest's keep. In the misty grasp of midnight, not a single being was awake. Well, almost.

The door to Hagrid's hut slipped open and shut, and a silhouette with hair the color of stardust and eyes like a meteor spark exited and quietly took a seat on the front steps. He leaned back and stared at the night sky. High above, the millions of stars above danced about him, pacing across the endless sea of space dust. He felt a sudden pang of homesickness so acute that his heart physically hurt.

All was silent for a moment. Then the door opened once more, bathing the lone figure in warm yellow lamplight, and Harry stepped out, easing the door closed behind him. His green eyes shone in the starlight.

"Hi," he said quietly, as if afraid to disturb the peace. He took a seat against the opposite railing so he was sitting across from the blonde. "Can't sleep?"

"I'm a star," Blondie muttered. "It may have escaped your notice, genius, but we tend to have better things to do at nighttime. Like, you know, _shining_?"

"Yeah, well, you know, it may have escaped _yours_ , but you aren't in the sky anymore," Harry retorted. Then he sucked in a breath, his voice more hushed. "Look, I was just wondering if you were okay."

"Of course I am. What are you talking about?" came the placid reply.

"You know." Harry felt the gravity of the atmosphere about them pressing down on him. Casually glancing down at his legs, which were intertwined with but not touching Blondie's, he caught a glance of a thick white bandage wrapped tightly around the star's ankle. "Earlier, with the Devil's Snare, and everything else tonight. Also, I wanted to apologize to you earlier, but I guess we were interrupted by, um, multiple incidents. I'm sorry I acted like a jerk earlier. I hope you don't hold it against me, especially since we're going to be stuck together for the next―what, two weeks?"

"Hagrid did patch my leg up, if that's what you're talking about," Blondie said lightly. While Harry had cleaned himself up, Hagrid had taken the star aside to check him over, and, upon discovering the limp and the broken bone, had very helpfully bandaged the wound as best he could and fixed him a makeshift splint without any unnecessary questions.

Then he quietened, his expression unbearably downtrodden. "That unicorn didn't deserve to die like that. I just keep thinking that maybe I could have helped in some way, or done something, but instead I was frightened by―by what? A black rag?" The last part barely came out as a whisper. "I'm completely useless. I can't do anything."

He turned his head away. Harry saw his half-lidded gaze, obscuring his mercury irises with his eyelashes, focus on the grass about them. Impulsively, Harry reached forward and caught his wrist in his hand. It was small and thin and fragile, and he felt completely out of his element, big and clumsy and a complete fool. Maybe the star's words, as caustic as they could be at times, did hold a fragment of truth to them. He hadn't exactly been the friendliest of people this evening, and it was true that they'd both had a rough night.

"I didn't even catch your name, you know," he said instead, softly.

A moment passed, and the star finally relented. "Draco."

"Draco? Like the constellation?"

"Really? What do you think?"

"Right."

Draco sighed, but his eyes had softened slightly when he finally sighed, "You're an entitled idiot."

With that, he got up, the almost invisible chain connected to his wrist clattering against the wooden step. It was so long and thin that Harry had completely forgotten about it. For a second, he almost felt bad about it, but then thoughts of Cho automatically eclipsed all else, and the brief concern was forgotten. He followed Draco inside.

Dutifully, he made for the spare room, only for Draco to stop him with a hand on his chest in the doorway. "What are you doing?" he half-whispered. "That's the guest room, and I intend to sleep while the moon's still hanging in the sky, you know."

"There is no way I'm sleeping in the same room as you are," Draco insisted.

"Don't you think I could say the same thing? Besides, I've had a rough day too," Harry raised a brow, as if daring the star to rise to the challenge.

"Oh please!"

"Seriously!"

There came another lengthy pause as they both considered the situation.

"I'm wounded," Draco finally supplied. "If anything, I get the bed."

Without waiting to listen to Harry's spluttering, he limped straight towards the small bed and plopped himself down in the center.

Reclining back against the pillow, he turned on his side to face the opposite wall and closed his eyes, dismissively. "I get the bed," he repeated, voice getting smaller by the minute. "You can take the floor."

Within minutes, his breathing had evened out, and the room was silent save for the soft rise-and-falls of his shoulders. Harry stood in the doorway for a few minutes, rendered speechless. Then he shook his head.

"Can't sleep at night my _arse_ ," he mumbled, rolling his eyes, and slumped towards the other side of the small room, dragging a couple of spare blankets with him. Once he'd laid them out and smoothed out the creases in the layers, he spared the resting blonde another glance. A small niggling feeling tugged at his conscience and refused to rest.

Harry sometimes hated his conscience. _Hated it_.

This was one of those times.

Instead of huddling into his blankets and going to sleep like any wise person would have done, he rose from where he was crouched on the floor, lighting his lamp, and shuffled over to where Draco was curled up on the bed, looking strangely open and innocent as he dozed.

Hastily, Harry tugged out the blanket from underneath the sleeping figure, doing his best not to wake him lest the temperamental blonde smack him, and gingerly draped it over him. The star frowned and shifted.

(Later, if one were to ask him the reason why he did this, Harry would stubbornly argue that the blonde getting sick should be the least of their worries, and, hence, he would have to try and prevent that as much as possible. For travelling convenience, that was all.)

That tiny part of him was satisfied with this, and finally laid to rest. Harry could not help but feel slightly smug as he muddled his way back over to his blanket stack. As he finally burrowed down into the blankets, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling, he let his mind wander. Today had been confusing, to say the least. If he was counting, well... He couldn't actually count all the strange things that had happened to him. After going his whole life without real adventure, this day was only the most hectic thing he could possibly imagine encountering, ever. He reached over and snuffed out the lantern candle, and the whole room fell into darkness.

As sleep claimed him, his last thought was that as wild as everything had been today, it had all worked out in the end.

If this was to be his life for the next two weeks or so, he could probably live with that.

* * *

Let me tell you the brief story of Zacharias Smith before we continue.

Zacharias Smith ― or, as many of the local village lads called him, Smithy ― was born in a dilapidated village that was so small and desolate that only a handful of people living in Grimmauld even knew it existed. His father was a farmer, and his mother was a farmer, and in hopes that he would grow up to be great, they had given him a fancy-sounding name like Zacharias just so he could get a head start.

Not that he did, though: Zachary was a nasty, lazy boy, with ruddy yellow hair and plain, uneven features that gave one the impression that there was something slightly off about him, and he spent his free time grumbling and complaining about his family, his friends, his life. He was a whiner, and nobody likes a whiner.

To be fair, though, the village was living in squalor. There was a market a few miles away, but around here, where houses built of moldy wooden slabs and corrugated tin dotted the graying fields and mud was splashed everywhere and the sky was white and only white, there was nothing.

So one day, while whiny Zacharias Smith was outside the shack, squatting on a barrel and kicking around at their nosy old goat, Maisie, he looked up and did a double take. For outside on the dirt road, gazing into the distance at the far horizon, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

(Not that he'd really seen many except for his mother and the ugly-duckling-like village girls, but even so.)

She was tall and regal and curvaceous, with a mass of black hair and misty dark eyes and forbidding red lips. She stood out like a blooming rose in the middle of a withering field, and poor old fool Zachary felt his heart skip a beat or two, especially as the wind blew through her curled locks and sent them flying gracefully behind her.

As if sensing his staring, the stranger turned to look at him, her eyes unreadable. For a split second, he thought he saw a menacing expression pass over her face, but brushed it off when she approached him with a sultry smile.

From inside the shack, his mother's vulture shriek shook the walls. " _Zacharias Smith_! Get off your lazy bum and go clean up! It's a pig sty out there! And go sell that goat, you stupid boy! We don't have any food or money, and you're still content to sit there, you layabout! _Lazy_! _Useless_! Why won't anybody ever help around the house? Even once? Ungrateful wretches, the lot of you!"

He didn't remember the last time she spoke to him that wasn't an insult or an admonishment.

"Yeah! Yeah, fine!" he yelled unintelligibly, mainly to get her nagging off his back.

"Don't you take less than a galleon for her, you hear me? And if I catch you spending a _second_ at the Hog's Head, you'll be sorry, Zacharias Smith!"

His ears burned as he looked back at the woman. She stood almost a head taller than he, and her lashes fluttered.

"Hello there, kind sir," her voice was like molten velvet. "What's your name?"

"Z-Zacharias Smith," he stuttered, voice coming out high-pitched and nasally. "Ma'am."

"Perfect," she purred. He blushed. "A galleon for your goat. Would you help me out, dear Zacharias?" She reached out and smoothed out the hair on his forehead, and he felt his pulse skyrocket. He considered the situation as he tugged at the leash about old Maisie's neck.

"Wait, but," he called out as she turned towards her chariot once more, running to catch up with her, "Maisie isn't enough to pull your cart."

"You _do_ have a point, dear." He could listen to her liquid voice forever, he thought. "Would you be willing to do me another favor, Mister Zacharias Smith?"

He nodded eagerly.

"Good boy."

Instantly, a shadow passed over the woman's face, and he was so taken aback that he stumbled backwards, tripping over a crate and landing in the hay. With a twisted grin, she pointed a jagged black stick directly between his eyes, and before he could think to scream, she had muttered a string of unintelligible words, and the world around him spun, and spun, until all was black and he knew nothing more.

* * *

" _Sister_?" a reedy, wheedling voice called out, and Bellatrix pulled a rose quartz dagger from its sheath. One half of the blade was made from the glassiest gold, carved intricately with designs of bats and vines. The other half, sharpened from real quartz, was currently clear of its usual mineral spark, and instead her sisters' faces shone back at her.

"What?" she snapped, holding it up with one hand. In the other, she clutched the reins of the black chariot, which was currently speeding down the winding road along the hills. To her left, the sea beckoned a mile below. "If you can't tell, I'm a little busy."

"Do you want to get the star or not?" Narcissa glared.

Andromeda pushed her aside. "Sister, you must head eastward. The signs tell us that someone has moved the star?"

"What?" Bellatrix fumed, stopping short. The chariot rumbled as it ran over a few bumps in the dirt road. "What does that mean?"

"We are not the only ones who seek the star. Right now as we speak, many plot the very same thing. As of now, somebody has already found the star. They are traveling together, southeast."

Bellatrix considered this. "The Forbidden Forest?"

The two in the dagger nodded sagely.

"They have already exited the Forbidden Forest. They have spent the night with a giant, and are moving south. Go quickly, sister," Narcissa urged. Then she scrutinized Bellatrix. "You already are starting to look worse for wear. Try not to use too much magic, will you?"

With that, the image had disappeared. Bellatrix cursed and slipped the dagger back onto her belt, and worriedly glanced at her left hand. It was already lined with wrinkles and freckled, its digits bony and gnarled. Each time she used magic, it ate away at her temporary youth all the faster.

She focused back on the road ahead, and squinted. She had already traveled for many miles, and had yet to meet another proper traveler, but up ahead along the bend was a parked caravan painted a bright, sunny yellow. The witch's eyes narrowed, suspicion weighing heavily on her mind.

Yanking at the reins, she rolled to a smooth stop in front of the caravan. On the grass sat a dumpy-looking woman monitoring the fire. She seemed to be alone, save for an exotic red bird in a birdcage hanging by the caravan door, as she roasted what looked to be a rabbit. Bellatrix's stomach grumbled at the smell of the freshly cooked game.

The brunette settled her two steeds ― two goats, one old and dirty and grey and the other a mousy yellow ― and glided over to where the lone camper kept vigil over the hearth. Said person warily looked up to see her approaching. The woman on the log was gangly and thin in all the wrong places, with a giraffe's neck and a hooked nose and a head the shape of an upside-down pear. She was all points and angles, from her severe grey countenance to her dull brown hair to her beady, hawk-like eyes. Bellatrix vaguely recognized her.

"Have you any room for company?" she requested, and the other witch squinted her way.

"Who goes there?" Her voice sounded like a plaintive wail, harsh and discordant. "You wouldn't harm a poor, helpless woman, would you―"

"Do shut up," Bellatrix groaned, willing her to zip her mouth and never open it again. _I know exactly who you are. Petunia Evans, dull as ditchwater._ "I know exactly what you are, and I swear by the blood of the covenant that binds us both that on this day I shall bring you no harm. I only wish to share your meal."

The other witch scraped at her teeth and finally acquiesced. "Alright, have a seat then. You can never be too careful around these parts." She turned the stick above the fire, prodding it a few times and lifting it off the grill. "Now, what'll it be: heads or tails?"

"Heads." Bellatrix simpered as warmly as she could manage, but her eyes were cold and calculating. The other witch obligingly got up and chopped off the selected portions, sprinkling several additives before she passed Bellatrix her desired portion. She sat across from the embers with her own half of the rabbit, digging in and chewing noisily.

As she bit into the crispy meat, the smell clouding her nose and the juices filling her mouth, Bellatrix felt a blissful mist settle over her mind, and passed it off as her stomach's gratefulness for the sating of its hunger. She almost missed the other witch's question.

"Well, fellow stranger, what strange happening brings you about these parts on this fine day?"

Before she could think, she was already blurting out the answer. "I seek a fallen star," she said after a mouthful.

"A fallen star, eh?" Across from her, the witch's interest piqued, the gluttony and greed glistening in her eye like the fats leaking from their meal. "Ooh, what I'd give to get my hands on one of those, wouldn't you say? Speaking of, where exactly are you headed?"

"South, eastbound. The star fell not far from here. When I find him, I'm to take my blade and chop out his heart while he is still breathing. Then, the glory of youthful beauty shall once again be ours." Bellatrix gave an indulgent smile, savoring the taste of the odd rabbit. Now that she thought about it, there _did_ seem to be something off about the food. Her eyes widened, and she glanced at her food once more.

"That's the best news I've heard in ages. I could definitely do with getting back a few good years," the other witch gushed, and then jumped as Bellatrix leapt up, rage consuming her. She pointed her wand out at the witch, meal forgotten in the grass.

" _Veritaserum_!" She glowered accusingly, unable to keep her acute humiliation at being so easily duped at bay, and rose to her full height so she towered over the woman sitting across from her. Veritaserum was a nasty thing; not even the most powerful beings, like those of Bellatrix's kind, were impervious to the way the clear liquid potion wrung the truth out of you like a used towel, oftentimes with wildly negative consequences. "How _dare_ you steal the truth from me by giving me Veritaserum? Do you have _any_ idea who I am, Petunia Evans?"

"How do you know my name―?" Petunia had risen, eyes rabid with fear.

" _Have you any idea what you have just done_?"

Bellatrix's eyes had filled out so there no longer was any white in them, and her hair flew wildly about her face as the wind picked up and began howling. Grey clouds suddenly crowded across the patch of sky above them, and lightning streaked through the heavens. Around her feet, a stormy cloud of dust had begun swirling. "You have just made a grave mistake, Petunia Evans. Look again, you foolish woman."

Only after a moment of frantic thought did the realization finally seem to dawn on the brown-eyed witch. Shakily, she fell to her knees.

"Have mercy!" she trembled, beseeching. "I didn't know it was you, O Lilim. I―I swear I will not seek the star! I swear it!"

But it was too late. Bellatrix's eyes glowed. Her voice sounded rusted and mechanic as it boomed, " _You shall seek as you wish. You will not, however, see, nor hear, nor sense, nor touch, nor smell the star. You shall not perceive the fallen star, even if it stands in front of you. You shall forget that we ever had this meeting._ "

Once she had finished her incantation, the storm clouds above subsided as quickly as they came, and the winds had returned to idle breezes; it seemed as if nothing had happened at all. All was gone as soon as it had come. The only indication that Bellatrix had done anything was the slightly ruffled state of her hair. With a final icy glare, she warned the currently shaken Petunia, whose eyes were glazed over, "Pray that you never meet me again, Petunia."

With that final, foreboding sentence, she turned on her heel and flounced off, appetite sated and ready to continue her pursuit. By the time she had already started the chariot and left, Petunia finally snapped out of her trance.

"Huh." Her voice sounded scratchy, so she cleared her throat before surveying the campsite. Nothing out of the ordinary except for a half-eaten rabbit head by the log. "What am I doing, wasting such good meat?"

She clambered over, picked up the fallen half, and continued eating, oblivious to all that had happened in the clearing not even moments ago, unaware that she had been bypassed by certain death with thanks to mercy only.

* * *

The Malfoy Manor was once seated securely at the pinnacle of Grimmauld society, the highest echelons of society.

That had been years ago.

The current and sole owner of the manor, Lucius Malfoy, son of Abraxas Malfoy, was no longer privy to the goings of high society. Once upon a time, Lucius Malfoy had been the right hand of Morsmorde, Grimmauld's largest underground network, consisting of spies, hunters, and dark creatures alike. It had been an unstoppable force. But that had been decades ago, and he had fallen from favor and was deemed a disgrace. For years, he had been sidelined, and had made a humiliated retreat into the confines of his estate. Rumor had it that he was a hermit; others said that he had perished long ago with his reputation. Nobody really knew.

Save for one.

His fireplace roared to life, its flames green. The dining hall was dusty and grey, as if it had been left to decay for eons (truth be told, it had). Lucius rushed to greet the newcomer as a head poked out of the fire, the brightness of the flames licking about the figure's features.

"Hello, Lucius," came the deceptively saccharine voice. "It's been a while."

The Malfoy lord knelt by the fireplace, a makeshift genuflection. "My Lord," he greeted respectfully. "Indeed it has. If I might ask, why are you calling me today?"

"I take it you haven't heard the news, then?"

"Not remotely, My Lord. What is this news you speak of?" It must be good, Lucius reflected bitterly, or he never would have been summoned in the first place.

"Dumbledore has fallen, and the throne is up for grabs. The locket of Salazar Slytherin, a priceless heirloom, has been granted the key to whoever shall be the next king. The search is on, and it now entails one more thing: a fallen star. I _need_ that star."

"A fallen star?" Lucius couldn't help but reiterate. "That's not possible. The last fell hundreds of years ago."

"Call it luck, good fellow!" the voice in the fire was far more mellow than usual. "Lucius, old friend, you wouldn't happen to be... _open_ to rejoining the circle, would you?"

Lord Malfoy had to clear his throat to keep his emotions at bay. "Yes, of course, My Lord."

"Then the search is on for the star. I shall contact you shortly. Keep informed, stay alert." Without any other warning, the fireplace blinked off, leaving only a smoldering pile of ash in its wake.

Lucius Malfoy got up, unable to believe his luck. He had waited for this for over twenty years; he would _not_ screw this up. This was his time to show the world what Lord Lucius Malfoy of the Malfoy bloodline could really do.

He considered this. And all it would take would be the star, whose whereabouts were currently unknown, and a few more helping hands... He'd have to make a few calls, pronto. He had work to do.

The clock was ticking.

* * *

 **final note :** please r&r, and tell me what you think! This chapter was exceptionally hard to write. This is unbeta'd, so please do notify me if there are any errors! (I'm only human, too.)


	4. stars, hide your fires

**Disclaimer :** again, I do not own any aspects of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter franchise, nor do I own any aspects of Neil Gaiman's Stardust franchise. A few lines (such as one with the Bellatrix scene and one with Harry and Draco) are taken straight from the Stardust movie script, and thus do not belong to me either.  
 **AN :** this is another one of those times when I feel very very nervous about posting something (which is actually always, but, you know). I can't believe it took me so long to write this! My apologies. It's just hard to write transitions. I'm super bad with pacing. Either way.  
 **Warnings/Other :** bad language, maybe some graphic situations, darker themes.  
 **Summary :** Harry and Draco continue on, with a few small complications. Lucius strikes up a deal. Bellatrix lies in wait. Tom goes about with some shady business, and Trelawney spews out nonsense―or is it really nonsense?

* * *

 **Your Heart in Exchange for Mine**

 **by nightofowls**

 _Non est ad astra mollis e terris via_.  
There is no easy way from the earth to the stars.

― Seneca

* * *

 _part 4: stars, hide your fires_

* * *

Harry woke to the sounds of both Hagrid and the kettle's shrill whistling. As he groggily blinked and sat up, he could see the thousands of tiny dust particles illuminated by the rays of sunlight filtering through the window. He groaned at the brightness and sat there dumbly for a moment, having fallen asleep in a daze, too tired to dream. He tried to collect his thoughts.

"You drool in your sleep," a voice cheerily supplied, and he groaned once more, massaging the side of his face.

"Well, good morning to you too," Harry turned his head to find Draco leaning against the door frame, looking the picture of innocence. The fact that he was heavily favoring his good leg failed to escape Harry's notice. "Aren't you just a dear? Besides, what happened to all your _stars don't sleep at night_ lingo?"

Draco smirked. "I now live solely to make your life miserable. It's only fair, seeing that you've completely ruined mine. Aren't you muggles all for the _eye for an eye_ mentality?"

"That is in no way correct," Harry grumbled, burying his face in his hands. Then he looked up and frowned at the star. "And I don't drool in my sleep."

"Check your pillow then, you overconfident baboon," Draco only replied airily. "Anyway, Hagrid made a pie. He asked me to tell you that."

He did not wait for Harry's reply, and glided out.

Harry only bit back a growl, refused to look at his pillow and give the other the satisfaction, and clambered up. As he padded into the kitchen, stumbling barefoot, Hagrid turned his head to glance at him from where he was baking more goods.

"Mornin' Harry! Have a nice rest?" he called above the racket in the kitchen. Draco was seated at the table, his hands wrapped around a large mug, and sniffed. Harry dragged out a chair and slumped in it. He rubbed a hand over his face.

"Not a morning person?" Draco seemed awfully chipper. Not taking his mercury eyes off Harry's, he lifted the mug and took a long, slow sip. Harry narrowed his eyes at the spectacle and spitefully tugged at the chain connecting their wrists. The blonde jolted and glared, flicking crumbs at him in retaliation.

"You seem awfully chipper for someone who supposedly sleeps during the day," he slurred. Blissfully unaware of the back-and-forth, Hagrid placed a plate of steaming apple pie in front of him and smiled.

"Eat up, lad. You've still a long way to go if ye want to reach the wall in two weeks," he warned as Harry dug in. Fang brushed by his legs and made to nudge at Draco, who absentmindedly stroked the furry ears and gazed at Harry thoughtfully.

"When yer done, I've a friend who might be able to help ye out."

* * *

Lucius surveyed the motley group milling about his dining room, and sniffed in disapproval. While he may not have housed many guests in his years living in isolation, he still had _standards_.

He had waited impatiently ever since the call for any sign of movement, and the very next day, the wards by his gate had started ringing like alarm klaxons. They had seemed louder and more discordant than he remembered, the memory of visitors having been dimmed over the years.

And now, here he was, hosting a ragtag group of men who looked like they came straight out of a bog.

Their leader stepped forward, shoulders squared, towering over him. He had a feral face that had been twisted into ferocity by years of bloodshed and macabre gore, his expression soulless and a tad psychopathic. He only grinned and never smiled, and he was the proud owner of a mouthful of rotting, jagged lines of serrated incisors. He was half man, half _beast_.

As the large man's rancid breath rolled over him, Lucius scrunched up his nose and belatedly wondered whether or not this was a good idea.

"The Lord Malfoy. How can we be of service?" His voice sounded like the grating of crushed gravel as he growled, looking every bit as unwilling to bow to any requests as Lucius was to have them trampling about his home.

"Fenrir Greyback." The name was distasteful on his tongue. "... Welcome."

"Our Lord sends his regards," Fenrir replied contemptuously. Behind him, his crew all bore the same animalistic grins.

Lucius swallowed his pride and haughtily spoke. "I assume you weren't told anything of import prior to your arrival?"

"Not even a morsel," Greyback advanced slightly, head tilting to the side, "so you'd better make it worth our while, wouldn't you say?"

"King Dumbledore has passed, and with him gone, the throne remains open. A star fell a day ago, Greyback, southwest of the Hogwarts, and now holds the key to succession. Find this star and bring it back to me, and fast. He travels farther and farther south day by day, so there is no time to lose."

"How about payment, dear Malfoy?"

Lucius paused.

"Fortune beyond your wildest dreams, but only if you succeed," he finally decided. "And, should you succeed, there is a chance that the star may be yours to do as you wish. You should know, Greyback, that talk of a star among the black market can gain you several thousand galleons, at the very least."

He could see the calculating glint in Greyback's eyes, the greed spreading across the hunter's face like a disease.

"Time is of the essence," Lucius warned, but he could already see the cogs in the man's head whirring.

Fenrir Greyback, leader of the infamous mercenary group called the Snatchers, finally turned to him, the pleasure of the chase smothering any possible hatred he could feel for the stuck-up Malfoy hermit. He'd get his paws on that star, and he didn't care how many people he'd have to run over in order to let him get there.

The two men shook hands, and he grinned.

"Deal. We leave now."

* * *

Once the two had cleaned up and finished their morning rituals, Hagrid had led the two out back, trekking a little ways away into the Forbidden Forest until they had happened upon an open clearing lit by sunlight. A giant ungulate grazed near the trees at the edge of the wood. Hagrid tromped into the meadow and whistled, and the creature's head snapped up. Harry startled. The creature had the front half of an eagle and the rear of a horse, dappled with stormy grey feathers and curiously intelligent orange eyes and wickedly sharp claws.

"This is Buckbeak. He's a Hippogriff!" As if sensing his confusion, Hagrid began his proud exclamation. "I was jus' thinkin' that maybe Beaky'd be willing to take you for a ride, just to help ye with yer journey."

Harry's face brightened. "That'd be great, Hagrid!"

"Alright, first thing ye gotta know is tha' Hippogriffs're mighty proud. Easily offended, they are. Don't ever insult one―it might be the las' thing ye do. Go on, then. Give 't a try, there's a lad."

Reluctantly, Harry placed his rucksack on the ground and took a step forward. Buckbeak cocked his head apprehensively.

"Tha's it―alright, righ' there! Ye want to let him make the firs' move―it's only polite, see? Now, take a step forward, give 'im a bow, and if Buckbeak bows back, then yer allowed to touch him. Don't worry, it's easier than it sounds!" Hagrid nodded encouragingly, beaming. Draco nervously fiddled with the chain around his wrist as he watched Harry approach the creature.

Unsure, Harry took a small step forward again and bowed. Buckbeak studied him cannily, his eagle eyes blinking furiously as he cocked his head to the other side and cooed. After a moment's hesitation, he reciprocated, and everyone let out a breath none of them knew they had been holding.

"Well done, Harry! Go on, give 'im a pat."

Tentatively, Harry reached out and laid his hand on the fierce beak. It felt smooth and warm under his palm, and he felt like laughing as he ran his hands across the downy feathers on the creature's head.

"Look at tha'! He likes you! Want to give him a test ride? You too, Draco."

"Excuse me?" Harry's smile dropped, and he had no time to react before Hagrid had picked him up by the scruff of the neck and plunked him on Buckbeak's back, and then lowered a protesting Draco on behind him by the wing joint. They shifted uncomfortably on the spot.

"Mind ye, don' pluck out any of his feathers. He won' like that," Hagrid warned, before whooping and slapping the Hippogriff on its hindquarters. "Off ye go!"

Buckbeak instantly surged forward into a gallop, and Harry slid scarily back, only managing to stay seated by grabbing Buckbeak's shoulders. Trembling, Draco yelped and grabbed onto him, swearing and scrunching his eyes shut. On both sides, a pair of giant wings unfolded, and with a powerful _whoosh_ they had taken off, soaring into the air.

The wind rushed past them, cold and biting. They rose higher, and higher, and higher. As Harry held on for dear life, he could feel Draco clutching onto him like a lifeline, arms wrapped tightly around his abdomen and face buried against his back.

"Are you scared?" Harry teased, raising his voice above the sound of the rushing wind as they shot towards the sky. His own voice sounded a little jittery, for that matter, but he dismissed it as chills due to exhilaration.

"N-No!" Draco insisted, but did not make an effort to move or open his eyes. "I'm just not a fan of falling to my d― _aaagh_!"

They plateaued, gliding along the breeze, over the never-ending foliage and greenery of the Forbidden Forest. Not far ahead, a lake with water so dark it seemed like a mirror beckoned to them, and gradually Harry began to loosen his hold on Buckbeak's neck as he took in the majestic land sprawled out before him. Draco cracked an eye open as the wind eventually stopped howling in their ears, and peered over Harry's shoulder, his hold loosening a tad.

They lost themselves in the joy of flying. As they neared the shimmering surface of the lake, Harry could make out their shadows racing across the grass below. They circled over trees, past Hagrid's hut, and, with heart-stopping speed, swooped down towards the water. Buckbeak's talons grazed the glassy surface of the water, spraying droplets everywhere, and he could make out a large shape move through the waters beneath the depths. Feeling particularly carefree, Harry whooped, spreading his arms out wide and welcoming the fresh scent of the water, the wind, the brine in the air.

"Live a little, Draco!" Harry yelled above the roaring of the wind. Buckbeak let out a piercing screech that resounded over the lake.

Draco resolutely shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut.

Hagrid whistled, and they began circling back, ascending into the clouds once again before descending in continuous loops. Finally, Buckbeak landed, jolting as he hit the ground with a trot. Harry was left breathing hard and fast from the flight. Behind him, he could feel Draco's intermittent trembles.

"Good job, boys! Tha' wasn't so bad now, was it?" Hagrid grinned, clapping his large hands together. "I'd say yer both set."

The half-giant turned to face the sun, shielding his eyes from the glare with his hand. A murder of crows scattered by overhead, their caws echoing through the trees. When he turned back to Harry and Draco, it was with another proud smile as he handed them another bag and unraveled a rope with dead ferrets and rats dangling on it in rows.

"I packed ye some food fer yer trip. It's got a couple o' rock cakes, some pound cake, some pie." He draped the line of dead animals around Harry's neck. Draco recoiled and leaned back slightly, his nose scrunched up, and Harry looked readily horrified. "Beaky likes to have those from time to time."

Harry sent him a toothy grin, and Draco smiled shyly at the man over his shoulder.

"Thank you for everything, Hagrid. We'll write you once we get back to Little Whinging, promise."

"Lookin' forward to it. Stay safe, lads." Said man took a few steps backwards as Buckbeak pawed at the dried leaves underfoot, preparing to launch into the sky once more. He whistled at Buckbeak, the call shrill and piercing.

The Hippogriff tossed its head back with a screech, stomped at the earth, and took off at a speedy sprint. Harry clung onto its neck as its majestic wings shot out once again, fanning great gusts of wind, and once again, they were in flight, leaving the ground behind at alarming rates. Hagrid waved, and Harry dared a look down to say farewell once again as the giant man became smaller and smaller, until he was eventually lost from sight, and they were once again on their way down south.

* * *

"Severus, come here for a moment."

Tom Riddle's imperious command resounded over the craggy black cliff face, overlooking an isolated bay with sharp, villainous rocks so forbidding that not a living soul had stepped foot on the land below in centuries. In the treacherous waters below, thousands of hulks protruded from the ocean bottom, and on a rare, calm day, one could see a few hulls snagged out of the water's edge. A single ladder of frayed rope hung from the top of the precipice and ran all the way to the bottom, its ends shadowed by the murky depths.

The Potions master stepped up silently. Together they gazed out at the roiling waves crashing against the stones, and time was suspended momentarily. Then it was over.

"That foolish soothsayer," Riddle began, the picture of nonchalance. Only someone as well-versed in the ways of the former king's adviser could tell that there was an edge to his voice. "She had no idea what she was saying, did she?"

Snape wisely said nothing.

Before they had left the palace, the batty old soothsayer Sybill Trelawney had emerged from her den in the Divination tower―a rusted old wing of the many-turreted castle just for her and her silly prophecies about gruesome deaths and silly fates―and pointed accusingly at them both.

" _You killed him_ ," she'd said, bony finger pointing accusingly, hair afrenzy. Her eyes had been magnified like an insect's, staring them down through her absurdly large glasses, unblinking. " _You both have set this kingdom down the path of destruction, with no hopes of return_."

"Excuse me?" Tom had stopped in his tracks and glared her down, sneering. He had no shred of respect for her, the old bat. "How dare you accuse me of such an act? It is treason even to think that I would do such a thing. I should have you beheaded for that. Consider it a mercy that I haven't already sent for the guards."

Trelawney had stood then, undeterred, and shuffled towards them, back hunched, until she was standing right in front of Riddle. She jabbed a finger in his chest, and he looked wholesomely horrified as she prodded at him and refused to back down.

" _Traitors to the crown abound_ ," she rasped, her eyes glassing over. Then she stilled, looking on into the distance. Tom Riddle blinked and waved a hand in front of her face, and she snapped back to attention, looking lost. The old woman shook her head and turned to go, muttering in disappointment, "Oh, what was I saying? Never mind..."

Tom had looked reasonably shaken as she hobbled away, lips pressed together in a thin line. "Foolish old coot," he had hissed under his breath, and then left, gesturing for Snape to follow. And now here they were, staring down at the abyss.

"You needn't dwell on that, My Lord," Severus said glibly, breaking the silence, very primly folding his hands and hiding them into his sleeves. Riddle nodded.

"Very good. What does that old bat still have, anyway?" He shook his head, and then nodded at the unsteady ladder. "Now, start your descent, Severus. There is a boat waiting at the shore. We will go 'round by sea and intercept the star before it reaches Diagon Alley by the wall, where I will take what is rightfully mine and declare myself the rightful ruler of Grimmauld where all folk can bear witness."

Snape nodded and, barely hiding his aggravation, started down the rickety rope rungs. The guards descended after him, and Tom was the last to move.

"But first," he muttered to no one in particular, his voice carried away in the wind towards the sea, and thought of the unnoticeable cave hole hidden away in the base of the stormy cliff, "I have an errand to run."

* * *

The ghosts settled comfortably at the back of the carriage, waiting, with all the patience dead men can possibly have, for its rider to set out. As if he had been summoned, Councilor Peter Pettigrew clambered in and gestured to the driver. The reins snapped, and the misty grey horses pulling the carriage neighed and set out at a brisk trot.

He had been the last of their group to set out. Lockhart had sped away in a carriage of gilded gold down who knows where―probably to find a route that would allow him to pass through the most populated towns and achieve the most publicity along the way, the fool; Umbridge had only giggled and made straight for the path to Diagon Alley in what resembled an over-sized pink shoe box; and Riddle had taken Potions Master Snape with him on a supposedly clandestine "diplomatic mission." No doubt he was trying to find a whole armada in order to snag the star.

Peter would not let that happen.

"Hurry! You'd better pick up the pace!" he called, voice ever nasally, and the driver only nodded and snapped the reins once more. Comforted, he sat back, and smirked in satisfaction.

He would get the star at any cost, and he had nothing to lose.

* * *

Bellatrix cursed under her breath as she ushered the two goats forward. They raced down the steep, slippery forest trail, skidding along the slopes and dodging fallen logs. The ground sped by beneath the chariot wheels. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the reins.

" _Sister! The star!_ " an urgent voice hissed from her pocket.

" _What_?" she screeched, and flicked the reins once more. The chariot hit a bump, and her wild tangle of hair flew in her face.

" _Sister,_ " Andromeda's voice crackled from the continuous jostles. " _I see the star heading in your direction. Clear the forest, set up camp._ "

The Lilim groaned. Hundreds of years spent living in close proximity with her sisters, blindly fumbling about without the spring of youth to clear their sight, had done little to dim the spark of rebellious irritation she felt whenever the younger two stepped up to command and made her feel small. To make certain, she grabbed her wand and muttered an incantation, watching as a netted lime green light spread itself across the sprawling path, leading her the way she needed to go. Motivation piqued, she urged the goats forward faster, traveling at breakneck speeds as she navigated the tricky forest path.

Once she had rounded the bend and the number of trees had begun to diminish, Bellatrix was faced with endless plains, with no houses or hills in sight. For miles, there was nothing save for trees on one side and grass on the other, both for miles on end. She bristled. If this had been a joke...

As the chariot slowed to a halt, she reached into her pocket and retrieved the cursed dagger, barking into the reflective surface.

"Andromeda, Narcissa! You'd better have an excuse for this. I've checked the coordinates, and there's nothing here. You _lied_ , didn't you?"

Their faces appeared not a moment later. Andromeda squinted at her, and Narcissa shook her head with faux sympathy.

"Oh, sister. You should try using your magic more sparingly. It's starting to show." Narcissa could hardly hide her glee at the first traces of old age creeping back onto Bellatrix's countenance. Even though her hackles rose, Bellatrix knew this was true―whenever she reached a hand up to her face she could feel the wrinkles at the corner of her eye, the crinkle of the corner of her mouth whenever she frowned. Stubbornly she waved the warning off.

"A goat and a few spells. Hardly extravagant."

"Well, even using the dagger can take its toll. You'd better only call us if the need be dire. And cast a spell yourself to find the location of the star," Andromeda berated, but her voice lacked the gravitas it had had in her youth.

"I did, and I was _told_ the star would be here, but now it seems as though everything's just telling me gibberish."

Andromeda ignored the accusatory glare directed her way, shaking her head as if she were reasoning with a small child.

"That is because you must stay where you are, sister. The star will come to you. He will arrive by nightfall, I swear by it."

"You had better be right," Bellatrix snarled.

Narcissa poked her head back into view. "But be warned, sister. You must tread with caution. The star is drained from misery, and seems to be wounded. You must find a way to set a trap that ensures that his heart is glowing before you cut it out."

A sly smirk slowly weaseled its way across Bellatrix's face, and she brandished her wand.

"Fear not, sisters. I have the perfect plan."

Narcissa rolled her eyes. "You had better. We aren't getting any younger over here."

"Remember: patience," Andromeda added, before both of their images faded, and Bellatrix was left alone.

With a satisfied flourish, she waved her wand at the empty space in front of her. From the nothingness laid across the grass before her wand spun a deceptively quaint building with a thatched roof and wooden shutters and climbing ivy, complete with stables and a barn. It looked every bit a homely abode, emanating just the right amount of comfort and warmth. She turned to the goats and pointed the wand their way.

"Time for you to become human."

With a swish of maroon light, the animals had disappeared. In their place stood two plain-looking folk with vapid expressions on their faces. Bellatrix smirked.

"You―" She pointed at the first, who had turned into a hulking, lumpy man with frighteningly crooked teeth and a permanent leer. "―will be my husband, Marcus Flint, the innkeeper. I will be your wife. And you―" She turned to the other, a stout girl with crude, unrefined features and a lopsided squint. "―are our daughter, Millicent.

"Now get ready. Our special guest is about to arrive soon."

* * *

The Hippogriff carried them for hours, soaring over obsidian gorges teeming with vines, the canopy of trees a rich vernal green. Harry's stomach twisted as he looked down, feeling lightheaded with his arms full of feathers and many miles between him and the earth. Draco's grip had gradually loosened, and the tension had disappeared from his hold, leaving him drowsily resting against the warmth of Harry's back. They glided past secret lagoons hidden in pockets of the forest, glittering with morning dew, past meadows dotted with wildflowers of lilac and amber and peony.

He had no idea how long they flew, sailing on the breeze and dashing through the clouds. The forest had started to thin out and he could see the lush green plains sprawled out below them. As the sky turned grey, Buckbeak suddenly began stirring and tossing his head, and their flight was interrupted by his intermittent squawks.

"What's wrong, boy?" Harry asked, nervously patting the creature's neck. He glanced up, fingers still running through the Hippogriff's dappled feathers, and murmured quiet nothings to keep the calm. Along the approaching horizon, gloomy ashen clouds gathered, spreading ominous shadows across the hills as far as the eye could see. If he squinted, he could make out the occasional streaks of bright light lighting up rain clouds from the inside. "Oh, no."

"What?" Draco piped up, his voice barely intelligible.

"There's a storm up ahead. We can't fly Buckbeak through it; it's too dangerous," Harry yelled above the howling wind. "We're going to have to land."

He could feel Draco nodding behind him, and he leaned forward to whisper in the Hippogriff's ear. "Buckbeak, we're going to need to land soon," he said soothingly. "Somewhere in the hills where we can find shelter for the night would work."

The creature cooed in response and flapped its great wings once, beating at the now raging wind. With a shrill cry, Buckbeak angled his head down sharply and began a steep plunge down into a thick coppice blanketing the hilly terrain.

They skimmed the trees, lowering themselves so far down that Buckbeak's claws occasionally brushed against the treetops. As they ventured further into the incoming storm, Harry could feel early raindrops, as large as pearls, begin to splash down upon them. Draco shielded his eyes from the glare coming from the gaps between the clouds, and glanced up at the grim granite sky.

"I think we're a little late to be worrying about staying dry," he remarked wryly, and wiped his damp cheeks with his sleeve. Raindrops began landing on them at an increasingly alarming rate.

Worried, Harry scanned the ground far below them, passing by too fast for him to focus.

"There's nowhere to land!" he cried. In the sky above, a dismal rumbling caused his stomach to drop. The rain pelted against them harder, falling so fast and so sheer in volume that he could hardly see, and he could already feel a chill settling through his clothes. He patted Buckbeak's neck in an attempt to calm him and continued urging the Hippogriff forward. He noticed a faint glow in the distance, and pointed frantically. "Over there!"

Buckbeak gurgled in response, ears twitching, and surged towards the light piercing through the bleak of the storm. Thunder rumbled once again, seemingly right above them. Draco grimaced and buried his face against Harry's back. Rain dripped from his drenched hair down Harry's neck, and he almost yelped aloud at the icy sensation running down his back.

They crashed through the leafy overhanging, branches scratching mercilessly at them, and collapsed in an undignified heap on the sludgy dirt ground. Harry was flung to the side as Buckbeak's knees buckled at the harsh landing, half-blinded by the rainwater, and Draco gave a small exclamation as he was sent rolling away, only to be stopped by the chain connecting their wrists.

Harry groaned as he hit a tree root. This was a little too similar to the happenings of the previous evening. He rubbed his head and slowly got up, clutching at the tree trunk behind him for support. He massaged a particularly sore spot on his shoulder.

"That went well."

"You're going to get us killed, you stupid git," Draco muttered, and winced. His ankle splint had fallen apart in the fall, and as he tugged his leg free from the bushes he could see the edges dangling, flapping and frayed. He did not notice a shadow flit by behind him.

Harry wearily tossed Buckbeak one of the dead rodents. The Hippogriff leapt up and excitedly dove for the treat, cantering off. The canopy above them was so thick that little to no light passed through the eaves of the leaves, and he could only see sparse crepuscular rays filtering through the pitch black. A stream of rain dripped onto his head, and he jumped. There came a _thump_ from a few feet away.

"Draco?" he squinted, unable to see past the small columns of greying light that crept through the gaps in the trees. The rest of the woods had fallen into hushed noiselessness, masking the heavy pattering of raindrops surging down upon them. The silence that greeted him was unnerving, and he tried again. Something was wrong. "Draco?"

The sibilant hiss by his ear caught him off guard.

" _Intruder_."

Harry turned at the sound, but saw no one. The darkness permeated his vision; he could not even see his own hands stretched out before him as he fumbled for a rock, a stick, anything. Before he could reach for a weapon, there came a sharp whistle through the air, and a wet, hot pain exploded in the back of his skull. His last thought before unconsciousness swept over him was that of Draco, wondering how he would get home without Harry there to uphold his end of the bargain, and regret tinged the edge of the black spots obscuring his vision.

The darkness enveloped him as he fell, and by the time he hit the ground he was already out like a light.

* * *

Harry was roused by a persistent nudging at his temple and the periodic throbbing of his head. The lights burned so bright that pain lanced through his head, burning into his retinas, and he scrunched his eyes up with a groan. The creature beside him whinnied and butted him in the temple with its nose, and Harry raised a hand to carelessly bat it away. Instead of the long feathers he had expected, his fingers brushed against a warm muzzle, and his eyes shot open.

He was lying on his back on a splintering pallet bedded haphazardly with straw, facing the dingy cemented ceiling. He knew before he sat up that he was in a cell. Never had he ever thought he would end up facing incarceration; the prospect was terrifying. His jacket and knapsack had been removed, leaving him only in the clothes he was currently wearing. A single dusty bulb hung from a wire above him, but the room was bathed in natural light. As he sat up with another pained grunt, he found out why.

The cell was fitted only with a bed, and was dusty with disuse. The floors and walls were all made of stone, carved roughly many millennia ago and smoothed out by stray rivulets of rain during storm season. One wall was missing; in its place were sturdy steel bars, and on the other side milled several of the most gigantic winged horses Harry had ever seen, each one immaculately groomed and gleaming white. The one bothering him to consciousness had stuck its head through the gaps between the bars and was now contentedly nibbling at his hair, and he had not the heart to bat it away once more.

Not a soul was in sight, and he suspected that these cells hadn't been used to detain anyone in quite a while. Idly, he stroked the crest of the white mare's mane, his thoughts wandering to Draco. Where was he? What had even happened?

His thoughts were interrupted by a series of light footsteps echoing down the sandy hall. He turned, startled, when his cell door clanged open, and tensed. On the other side of the room, behind the cell door, stood a girl with some of the fairest features Harry had ever seen. She was tall and willowy, extraordinarily beautiful, with azure eyes and opalescent skin and hair spun from the purest gold. He had no idea how old she was. Everything about her seemed so in place that it was like she was cut straight from marble.

The rusty hinges squeaked as she unlocked the door, the sound of metal on metal reverberating through the desolate hallway, and with a mighty clang the visitor pulled the cell door open.

Her expression betrayed no emotion, and her voice was monotonous. "You have awoken. Follow me."

Harry's intrigue got the better of him, and with a final pat, he left the large winged horses to their grazing. They padded up the winding hallway, the dirt under their feet fine and tinged orange, and began climbing up a flight of seemingly endless stairs, winding their way around and around.

"I came with somebody," Harry ventured as they walked, but the girl did not turn to him. "Is he here?"

His escort did not even bother to spare him a glance. "You may save your questions for when you meet with the Elder."

"The Elder?"

He gave up when he received no reply.

After navigating the labyrinthine hallways, they were in the open air, walking on an intricate silver bridge so ornate and delicate that it seemed one gust of wind would knock it over. Harry gazed out in amazement. They were in an expanse of what once had been castle gardens, now knocked down and faded to ruin, so much so that the meadows were now home to wildflowers and streams and lagoons of all kinds. A waterfall cascaded from the heavens in the distance, a misty rainbow shimmering in the air above it. Clouds of butterflies the color of precious gems and the size of bats fluttered by, brushing against his hair. Everything in the green seemed to come straight out of a dream.

Finally, they entered a glorious gazebo leading to a towering structure made of chalky white glass, reflecting off the sunlight in bursts of rainbow color. Harry almost stopped in awe at the sight of the building twisting and exploding into the sky. There was no evidence that there had been a storm, and he wondered how long he had been out. Inside, past more walkways and twists and turns, they finally entered a grand circular room with a dome rising dozens of feet above them, layered with glass panels and directing sunbeams in every direction.

The room was filled with people―or, rather, fair folk, of sorts. Around the room were people who looked exactly like the girl who had brought him, all with shiny gold hair and sultry blue eyes and sharp, defined bone structures, dressed in pristine shades of blues and silvers. Harry felt completely out of place with his messy black hair and mucked up garb.

"Harry!"

At the other end of the hall sat a throne carved from bone, its top regally splayed out like a crown. At its foot lay piles of skulls, all smoothed till they shone, elevating the throne above all else. Draco sat next to the throne like an honored guest, surrounded by more fay, fitting in perfectly with his platinum hair and his fine, otherworldly facial features. Only his facial expression showed how out of his element he was.

"Draco?" Harry frowned, and took a few steps forward, shrugging off the warning hand that came to rest on his shoulder. "Draco!"

When the blonde made to get up, he was fondly pulled back into his seat by those next to him. One of the girls giggled, liquid eyes shining, and tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear. Another plunked a wreath of silver atop his head. A tall, adroit man, with pin-straight blonde hair that ran down his back, a warrior's black breastplate and armor, and twinkling periwinkle eyes played with the edges of Draco's hair and whispered something in his ear that made him blush.

Harry's mood inexplicably soured at the spectacle.

Then the woman sitting on the throne rose to her full stature, and Harry's eyes goggled.

The lady was clad in a magenta coat that trailed to the ground and left a sizable train in its wake, and her collar was shrouded in soft white fur, giving her an air that was all the more patrician. She had a haughty look about her, and a countenance that suggested she was had aged very well, with short, styled dark hair and olive skin. Her beetle black eyes bore into him. The most outstanding feature of hers, however, was her height: standing up, she towered over eleven feet. Harry did not doubt that she was at least as tall, or perhaps taller, than Hagrid. Even though everything about her was the binary opposite of that of the fair folk, she did not seem to stick out like a sore thumb, in the way he did. He gulped as he was led to stand in front of her, and she peered down at him over her nose.

"You are ze intruder," she remarked, her accented voice carrying through the hall, and instantly the whispers stopped. It was deep and throaty, like crimson velvet, and Harry only felt chills run down his back at the sound of her voice. "Tell me, stranger: what is your name?"

"H-Harry Potter." He could feel beads of sweat gather at his temple as he watched her scan him over.

"I am Olympe Maxime, ruler of Beauxbatons Castle. You 'ave intruded on zis sanctum. What do you 'ave to say for yourself?"

Harry floundered for words.

"For the short time you live, you may call me Madame Maxime." She rose a brow.

"Um... Yes ma'am?" He cringed.

"'E does not look like the kind to slay creatures of the forest at a whim, does 'e?" Madame Maxime commented haughtily to her followers, but kept her gaze trained on him. She looked thoroughly unimpressed.

"I do not feel he has malicious intent," one of the willowy girls said, looking at her nails with pursed lips. It struck Harry how familiar that movement was―Cho used to do that all the time when he attempted to strike up a conversation.

How he missed home.

"His movements are bumbling and clumsy," piped up the guard behind him.

"He does not have the finesse to do what the one _out there_ does," another agreed.

Soon, a cacophony of voices lit up the room, each of the fair folk unabashedly expressing his or her own opinion regarding Harry's fitness as a general living creature. He noticed that few of the reviews were favorable. How lovely.

When he tried to open his mouth and interject that hey, they were acting like he didn't even exist when _clearly_ , the subject of their heated discussion was very much alive and well and standing in front of them, his voice was lost to the crowd of others, each ringing louder than the next.

Madame Maxime held up her hand, and the room fell silent.

"Can somebody _please_ tell me what's going on?" Harry knew he wasn't in the position to be making demands, especially judging by the sudden jab in his side, but he stood his ground.

"Harry... _Potter_." The dark-haired woman said slowly, frowning as if his name felt unpleasant on her tongue. "Tell us why you 'ave come here."

"I didn't arrive on _purpose_ ," he stressed, belatedly realizing how stupid that sounded, and rushed to explain. "There was a storm outside, and we didn't think it would be wise to fly through lightning. Shocks, you know."

Draco's aggravated expression told him more than he needed to know.

" _W_ _e_?"

Harry nodded mutely.

Madame Maxime scrutinized him for a moment, eyes piercing into him, like she was looking directly into his soul. Time seemed to slow, and the single minute of contemplation seemed to stretch out for an eternity. Draco looked on nervously, unmoving.

Finally, she heaved a defeated sigh. "'E means no 'arm. Archers, withdraw."

Harry's eyes widened when a shuffling from a ring of balconies high above him drew his attention. There had been _archers_? He hadn't even noticed anybody holding weapons at all, let alone any secret guards hiding anywhere. The prospect of having just missed another hit filled him with a dreaded relief. Everybody else resumed their chatter, quickly losing interest in the scruffy, dark-haired boy standing in their midst. Several began filtering out.

"Now that it's safe, can _anyone_ please tell me what's going on?" Harry eyed the rest of the fair folk wildly, but received no reply.

"We apologize for the misunderstanding, Monsieur Potter." Madame Maxime descended the embellished steps gracefully. "It seems you speak the truth."

Harry sent her a strained smile, and arched his head in an attempt to seek out Draco, but he was lost in a crowd of fair hair and glimmering clothes, gone from sight. He tried not to let his worry show. At least the star fit in; that was a plus.

Madame Maxime blocked his view as she strolled over. Harry had to angle his head back to gauge her expression fully. She was so much larger up close.

"Walk with me, Harry Potter. We 'ave a lot to discuss."

* * *

They walked on in tense silence, trailed by the lovely blonde maiden from earlier, until they were back in the courtyard. As far as Harry could see, people of stunningly pale hair and features milled around, dancing among the flowers. A few were playing handcrafted lutes, the soothing lullabies wafting in the air, creating a sense of paradisaical languor in the meadow. Madame Maxime gazed out across the fields, not saying a word. Harry waited.

When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet. It did not have the booming quality it did in the hall.

"You are not from Grimmauld, I can tell," was her first remark. Harry looked at her curiously. "You 'ave a certain quality that sets you apart from ze others."

"You mean, because I'm human?"

"No, 'Arry Potter. There is something about you..." she looked at him thoughtfully, and Harry felt ashamed and vulnerable under her gaze. After a moment's consideration, she shook her head, and switched an approach. "You 'ave 'eard of us, 'ave you not?"

"You said something about Beauxbatons, earlier." Harry wracked his brain for the exact words.

" _Oui_. But I did not speak ze full truth. This _once_ was the Beauxbatons Castle, in the 'eight of its glory. Years ago, 'owever, it was destroyed. For centuries, our land 'as been called _Ze Ruins of Beauxbatons_. _That_ is the truth. Beauxbatons 'as 'oused the Veela population for as long as we can remember. This 'as been home to our people for many years, and in recent years, more intruders 'ave been invading, bringing death and destruction. That is why I doubted you at first. To us your kind is not familiar. We 'ave lived in isolation for a long time. We are no strangers to the inner wills of man."

"Veela?"

Harry had heard of the veela before, in folklore and urban legends passed to him as bedtime stories when the nights were long and the lights burned low. They came to him in his dreams, fables of alluring forest creatures with seductive smiles and features carved from moonlight, of sapphire eyes and pyrite braids, luring unknowing travelers into the woods, never to return to the mortal realm. In his waking nightmares, their faces morphed into terrifying bird beaks and their arms into feathered wings, and each time he woke up, longing to see something he knew was only fantasy.

Well―not so much anymore. It figured that the stupid star he had to catch looked just like a veela.

Madame Maxime began walking once more, and he rushed to keep up.

"I shall tell you a secret, 'Arry Potter. There are eyes in the forest. There are spirits watching over us. Somebody 'as violated the sanctity of ze forest, leaving desolation in its wake. 'E 'as stolen innocent veela from their homes, and 'as instilled fear in ze 'earts of all of us. 'E 'as taken to slaughtering animals in the forest, leaving their corpses as a warning to us all," she said, expression darkening. "These are dangerous times."

Harry thought back to the slaughtered unicorn back in the Forbidden Forest, when they had first encountered Hagrid. Could that have been one of these incidents that Madame Maxime was talking about as well? It couldn't have just been a coincidence, could it? He quickly pushed the thought from his head, and instead focused on her words.

Realization dawned on him. "That's why we were brought here, Draco and I. You thought he might be a veela?"

Madame Maxime nodded gravely. "There 'as been a growing number of missing veela in ze past year. When you landed, our warriors thought that you and your companion were another of these cases. Given your partner's appearance, it was not a 'ard thing to assume. Forgive us for acting with caution."

"It's nothing," Harry gave her a lopsided grin. The back of his head throbbed in protest, but he ignored it.

They stopped, and Harry followed her gaze to a particularly large group of veela, among whom Draco was seated. Those around him were laughing and chatting among themselves, doting on the star like he was a prince. Harry felt a pang in his chest as he watched one of the male veela from earlier passed Draco a blooming rose, and a small, shy smile spread across Draco's face in response. He scowled in disapproval, mood soured, but said nothing. Together, he and the giantess gazed at the star for a long moment, not saying a word.

"'E really does look like a veela," Madame Maxine said lowly. "Anybody could be mistaken. But I know 'e is not. 'E does not 'ave ze glamours veela usually 'ave. 'E radiates a different energy. As do you."

"What does that mean?" Harry turned, but his question was interrupted by Draco's bewildered exclamation.

"Harry?"

He got up, his eyes wide with barely-disguised relief, and ran over. Harry noticed that his splint had been replaced, now lined with metal, and the dirt from their fall had been washed from his hair.

"What happened? Did you do anything to him?" he asked, turning to look at Madame Maxime.

"No, child," she replied, and he smiled at her like they shared a secret.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Madame," he said instead.

"If you'd like, you can stay ze night," the woman offered kindly, but Harry was quick to reply.

"No, thank you. That's very kind of you to offer, but we've a long way to go and a very short amount of time to cover the distance," he insisted, hoping the excuse wasn't too transparent. Truth was, he knew he couldn't stay any longer. The meadows of the Beauxbatons were too serene, too tranquil; if he stayed any longer than he could, he would never leave. He would be sucked in by the veela allure and spend the rest of his days trapped in a bubble of faux happiness, which, if he thought about it, definitely wasn't what he wanted. He needed adventure. He needed to explore.

Although, to be fair, if he ever got the chance to go on a holiday around Grimmauld, the ruins would be the first place he'd visit.

"So be it. Gabrielle will show you out," Madame Maxine gazed down at them, and made to leave. She stopped in her tracks, and looked at the two. "If ever you need 'elp, or you find anything of substance―" She shared a meaningful glance with Harry. "―I will look forward to your message."

"Thank you, Madame Maxime," Draco called out after her, and she waved elegantly. Harry grinned at her. The blonde girl from earlier on stepped up to greet them, and spoke for the first time since the command she had given Harry in his cell, her voice soft and sweet.

"This way, please."

The two followed close behind her as she led them back through the endless passageways of the castle, weaving left and right so many times that they lost count. If he squinted, Harry could occasionally notice a flickering sheen over the castle walls. When he concentrated, he could make out the form of crumbled grey rock beneath the veneer of the gleaming white that misled everybody.

No wonder this place was called the Ruins to outsiders. To them, that was all the castle was: a desolate area not worth their attention. In reality, it was a haven that glimmered with life in every corner.

But nobody knew that.

Nobody cared enough to actually find out. Perhaps some things are better left unexplored.

An illusion. Everything about this place was but a glorious illusion.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by Gabrielle's voice. They had arrived at a majestic arch of vines and roots, twisting and intertwining with one another, blooming with perennials and tropical flowers. "Please wait here."

A moment later she returned, holding Harry's belongings.

"Oh, um, Miss―?"

"Delacour." Harry raised a brow.

"That's a really pretty name," he commented, and Gabrielle blushed most prettily, hiding her cheek in her hand with a giggle. A few stray strands of her hair fell in her face, and in a hurry she brushed them back behind her shoulder. The action held Harry's attention a lot longer than it should have, and he shook his head to rid himself of the temporary daze.

"You can just call me Gabrielle. I take it you're travelling south?"

"R-Right." Harry rubbed the back of his neck, feeling strangely abashed. "I was just wondering, but we came with a Hippogriff. Have any of you seen him around―?"

Gabrielle looked at him through her lashes apologetically, expression demure. "Ah, um, we did, but," she blushed even more, "we let the creature return the way it came, since our guards thought you were at least going to be detained for a few days. I'm really very sorry."

"Oh," Harry's brow creased. "Well, that's alright. Thank you, though. I guess we'll just have to walk then."

"Also," Gabrielle's fingers gently snagged his sleeve just as he was about to turn away. Her voice was so soft that Harry had to strain to hear her, and her cheeks were bright red. "I have a request. For you, if I may."

Harry felt his own face heat up as well. Was it just him, or did the temperature suddenly rise?

Behind them, Draco rolled his eyes and sneered and turned away.

Having been down in the dumps moping over Cho for most of his youth, Harry had seldom been privy to such affections from the village girls. Not that he minded too much―it was just that now, the growing intimacy of the scene was a bit much for him.

"Of―Of course."

She held up a silver necklace with a line of rich blue seashells dangling from it, and took Harry's hand in hers. She placed the jewelry in the palm of his hand and folded his fingers inwards so he was fully grasping the item. He held it up once more just to take another look. When the shells turned in the wind, they seemed to shimmer and reflect back several different shades, like the ocean waves under the sun.

Her fingers lingered against his. "My sister, Fleur―she lived here with the rest of us until she married into another family. She lives down south now, and―and I was just wondering if perhaps you could give this to her if you happened to meet her on your way down? Or, if you could pass it onto someone outside who might know her? You have a better chance than I do of getting it out of here in one piece, and I miss her and I'd like her to have it, so I'm pinning my hopes on you."

Finally, she withdrew, and Harry's fingers tingled at the loss of contact. He nodded, still in a stupor.

"Ah―um, yes! Of course! I-I'll do my best, don't you worry. Find your sister―that's a real doozy, but I'll get it done―"

Gabrielle brightened and shrieked, bounding up and wrapping her arms around his neck with an excited _thank you_ and he flushed bright red. He didn't notice Draco's raised brow and crossed arms until the star coughed.

"We should really be getting going," he said shortly, the corner of his mouth pursed in disapproval.

Gabrielle and Harry broke apart, leaping back as if they had been stung and stuttering unintelligibly in embarrassment. Draco remained unimpressed.

"Right," the girl said, subdued. Biting her lip, she edged away from Harry, wringing her hands together and bowing her head in a way that had her hair falling in her face most daintily. "Um... I suppose you should get going. If you leave now, you might be able to reach a nearby settlement by sunset."

"Right," Harry murmured with a blink. Snapping out of his daze, he turned back to Draco, feeling the remaining vestiges of rosy-cheeked indulgence leave him, clearing his head of all brief thoughts of Gabrielle. A hollow melancholy filled him in its stead. "Alright, we'd better get a move on, then."

"Goodbye." Gabrielle waved wistfully as they descended the steps, back into the forbidding forest. Harry allowed himself a final glance back.

"Bye, Gab―" His voice caught when he tried to say her name. He offered her a shy smile. "Gabrielle. I hope life finds you well."

As he and Draco began trudging down the bleached white stone steps, Draco rolled his eyes, fixed on the shadows ahead. Harry resisted the urge to turn back and run. The Beauxbatons keep was a world of whirring color, of mesmerizing beauty, of pastel moments captured in a painting. Now that he had been immersed in light, he had no desire to return to the dark.

" _I hope life finds you well_? That doesn't even make sense," the blonde tossed his fringe out of his eyes.

The movement reminded Harry of the flowery aroma of Gabrielle's long golden hair, a fleeting memory that left only traces of sweet perfume imprinted in his mind. Just thinking about it very effectively put a damper on Harry's ebullient mood. He gulped, forcing down his words.

Glowering, he turned away.

"Do you fall in love with every single girl you meet? Because that's the impression I've gathered so far."

"Don't even start," Harry ground out. Then he perked up. "Oh, that reminds me!"

Before Draco could respond, Harry had grabbed his wrist and reattached the chain―which had very conveniently been replaced on his bag―that had earlier tethered them together. The blonde's eyes widened impossibly.

" _No_!" He growled and tugged ineffectually at the chain. "Why would you do that? You _know_ I'm not going anywhere, right? I've got a _broken leg_!"

"Security measures," Harry seethed back. "Stop being a nasty little prat."

The trees loomed tall and ominous over them, and behind them, the image of the Beauxbatons keep had shimmered and faded, its glory rusting and crumbling into an image of dilapidated stone and ruination. Had it not been for the past few hours, Harry would not have believed the illusion housed a home for so many.

Then again, this was Grimmauld. There were simply too many unbelievable things.

* * *

Afternoon crept upon them with the heat as they trekked through the forest, due south. Progress was slow; the encounter with the veela and the long walk itself were lethargy-inducing, and they were quickly tiring of Hagrid's rock cakes ― although Harry did find that chomping on one of those could occupy his mouth and his thoughts for almost hours on end. The sky was tinged a glaring shade of grey. Overhead, a flock of cranes called, their eerie, primeval cries echoing across the forest. As much as Harry had tried, he could find no semblance of a dirt path or civilization anywhere.

(Instead, he tried to focus on his memories of Cho, with her gleaming black hair and jasmine scent. The mere thought of her gazing his way occupied his mind for the better half of an hour.)

"So you think you know where you're going because―and I quote―' _you just do_?'" Draco asked incredulously. "How have you survived for this long?"

"I do know the way, though. I'm not sure how. Perhaps my love for Cho is a beacon, calling me home―" Harry began, but the star instantly cut him off with a derogatory snort.

"Please."

"Look, Dracula―" Harry threw up his arms.

"It's _Draco!_ I know for a fact that you're doing that on purpose. How many times do I have to―will you _please_ slow down a little?"

"Yes, yes," Harry relented dismissively, but steadied his pace as the star hobbled on behind him. "Look, we're just headed south. The wall's down south somewhere, alright? The sun's gone now, so it's really just the heat wave, and if you look closely―hey, what are you doing?"

Draco had plopped himself down on the ground, reclining against a tree trunk with closed eyes and effectively bringing all progress to a halt. He languorously opened one, the halved lids making his eyelashes look infinitely long.

"Sitting down. I'm tired."

"Can we _please_ not do this again?" Harry felt on the verge of kneeling in front of the star and pleading. He hoped it didn't have to come to that. He wanted this to be over as soon as possible, too! "We agreed that we'd stop at the next village to eat and rest. Why're you camping out in the middle of nowhere?"

"Harry, it's already past midday. I never stay up this late! Just―please, let me sleep."

"What about last night? If I recall correctly, you fell right to sleep in the guest room and forced me to huddle on the floor for the entire evening," Harry raised an eyebrow.

"Have you not heard of _recuperation_? It's something people do when they need _rest_ , because they're _hurt_ and being marched around by _idiots_ named Harry Potter, king of all morons!" Harry considered this. The insult would have held much more sway if Draco had bothered to look at him, but, judging by the drowsiness in his voice and the way he was clearly fighting to keep both eyes open, he was telling the truth.

"Alright," he acquiesced, trampling down on dead leaves as he approached the blonde. "Okay, well, you―um, then I―you know what? You sleep, and I'll go find some food. Gabrielle said there'd probably be a town nearby, so I'll go on ahead and see if there's anything I can scavenge up there, and then I'll come get you."

He pulled at the link around his own wrist, which gave way without much effort, and weaved it around the tree trunk. Draco's eyes shot open in alarm as he heard the metal melding together once more, chaining him to the tree.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing? I have to make sure you don't run away," Harry said, as if it were abundantly clear and Draco were an idiot.

"You're absolutely horrible," Draco said with a spiteful glare, curling in on himself. "You're going to leave me out here to freeze to death. Ignorant sod."

Harry had to bite down on his tongue to prevent himself from saying something he might regret. After a moment's consideration, he sighed and shrugged off his heavy overcoat and tossed it at Draco.

"There. I'll be back soon, don't worry." With that he turned and walked away, but not before catching a glimpse of Draco pulling the jacket around his shoulders with an indignant huff. The sight had his chest and stomach constricting and doing strange things, but he shoved the feeling aside. _It's the hunger_ , he told himself sternly. _It's eating you alive, driving you mad_.

That was definitely it. Nothing else.

* * *

Draco's sleep was restless, haunted with unfamiliar faces and the feeling of strange, dark desires seeping through his veins. He tossed and turned, feeling pinned down and discomforted, and his dreams were flighty things, drifting at the edge of his vision in a way that dissipated the moment he opened his eyes when he was startled awake by nothing in particular.

Dusk had fallen. Harry was nowhere to be seen.

Draco had no idea for how long he had nodded off. The dark was disarming, dispelling all thoughts of dreamland as he took in his surroundings, now bathed in shadows. Through the trees an icy gust of wind blew, settling deep under his skin, and he shivered, pulling Harry's coat around himself further in an attempt to keep warm.

He had no idea how long he had slept, but deep down he knew that Harry should have been back by now.

Among the trees ahead, a rustling shook the bushes, and Draco froze, whipping his head around. Horror took hold of his heart, wrapping around it and squeezing, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. When he was still living in the sky, he had borne witness to the countless horrible things that could happen to somebody out alone in the dark.

"Harry," he called out, voice shaky, "Harry, i-is that you?"

There came no reply. The rustling suddenly seemed a lot closer, and seemed to come from a completely different direction. Wild-eyed, Draco's panicky gaze darted to and fro, paralyzed with fear.

"Who's there?" His voice was tremulous and sounded weak to his own ears. "H-Harry, is that you? This isn't funny!"

The rustling got closer and closer, and Draco tugged uselessly at his wrist, internally cursing Harry for putting him in this situation. How had his luck come to this? What _exactly_ had he done to deserve this? He was going to die and it would all be that stupid Harry Potter's fault.

Stupid, _stupid_ Harry Potter! Draco swore that if he got out of this alive, he'd smack that stupid sod over the head a few times.

He flinched when a dark shadow emerged from the bushes, and waited for the incoming blow. When there was nothing save for the soft kiss of the breeze, he ever-so-cautiously opened one eye and lowered his arm, heart skipping for miles a minute.

A horse stood before him.

Well, that was probably the most general description of the year.

Draco's eyes widened in wonder at the creature that stood before him, nosing at the ground. It had a reptilian face with white, glazed-over eyes, and was covered all over with a glossy, translucent coating, revealing the stark black skeleton moving sinuously underneath. Its leathery, bat-like wings unfurled as it whinnied, the high, keening noise piercing the eerie peace of the clearing.

A Thestral. Draco had heard of the creatures before, but to see one up close was a whole other sensation.

Transfixed, he held out his hand, and the creature awkwardly padded over, butting its cold, smooth nose against his palm.

"Hello," he breathed out quietly, an incredulous laugh in his throat, and stroked up its head. "Aren't you just stunning?"

The Thestral whinnied in response, its attention drawn to the chain around his wrist, which flashed and shimmered when it caught onto a stray beam of light. As Draco held out his wrist, it bit at the line with its beak-like muzzle, and he watched in amazement as the chain promptly dissipated under its touch, unwinding from around his wrist and seemingly dissolving into thin air.

"Th-Thank you," he murmured.

Jauntily standing up and stretching out his limbs, Draco suddenly felt a freedom he hadn't known before. He reached out a hand to the Thestral, which obediently bowed its neck to let him clamber on, and he did so without too much trouble, linking his arms around its neck. Then he rested his forehead against its neck and stroked it behind the ears.

"You know what?" He perked up, declaring triumphantly. "I don't need him! I don't need that git to drag me into another life-or-death situation."

The Thestral only tossed its head, but Draco took that as a sign of agreement.

He continued ranting: "Besides, who's to say he'd keep his promise about the Floo powder? I refuse to believe that he's the only person in Grimmauld who can help me. Stupid Potter, going on and on and _on_. Just "Cho this" and "Cho that" all the damned day long."

By this point, the Thestral laxly stomped a hoof against the earth, and Draco sighed.

"Let's get out of here."

Without further warning, the Thestral let out another sharp, piercing shriek and burst into a fluid gallop, and left the clearing remorselessly behind, carrying Grimmauld's first fallen star in centuries away from the quiet sanctuary of the forest.

* * *

Branches scratched at Harry's face as he batted his way through the underbrush, spraying flecks of dirt on him and obscuring his vision. After hours of walking and muddling along, he had finally found a small, abandoned town house in the middle of nowhere, and had salvaged a few loafs of bread, the lucky lad―but not without complete toil. There was a pebble in his boot poking into the arch of his foot, and the evening chills had started to set in. In spite of his intermittent trembling, Harry still did not regret giving his jacket to Draco.

Speaking of Draco...

"Draco?"

Harry burst into the clearing, having wrestled with a particularly vicious set of brambles. He was sure this was the place; he had marked the path on his way back. In fact, he was almost completely sure that he'd interrupted Draco's nap, and would later be subjected to more dirt-throwing and insults.

Instead, as he stumbled to a halt, he found the clearing empty. A frenzied trepidation filled him then.

"Draco?" he called, louder this time, beginning to grow frantic, and rushed over to the tree. "Draco!"

No reply.

"Well, shit."

He could still make out the disturbance in the leaf grooves where Draco had sat earlier, but there was no sign of the star anywhere.

Above him, storm clouds gathered once more, rumbling, disgruntled.

Crestfallen, Harry suddenly felt his frustration sweep over him, leaving his head and heart hurting, and he slumped onto the ground and buried his face in his hands, uncaring of whether or not he got his clothes even grimier. In that moment, he wished he could undo everything; perhaps if their meeting hadn't gotten off to such a rocky start, or if he hadn't chained Draco to himself like an idiot, or even if he had taken Draco the last few miles so they could find a proper place to rest... This was bad. Draco could be in trouble. He had to find him, and fast.

"Oh, you idiot."

* * *

He didn't know how long he had traveled or how far he had gone, his mind blinking on and off. Thunder roared through the heavens once more. Rain poured down in bucketfuls, and he could see no further than a few meters ahead in the darkness of the clouded evening sky. All around was dark, and nothing else.

Finally, as he squinted through the rainwater dripping into his eyes, he vaguely made out a light in the distance. The Thestral whinnied and reared up as another bolt of lightning dashed across the sky, momentarily illuminating, and for a moment Draco could see all the blackened bones and ligatures knotted throughout its body, right underneath him. The sight was awesomely grotesque.

"Look, up ahead!" he pointed, yelling over the screaming of the wind as it buffeted at his clothes. He was completely drenched, and the frigid gales buffeted them in its path, but the Thestral doggedly loped on, picking up the pace. Burying his face against the creature's neck, Draco could not stop his shivering.

After what seemed like an eternity of cantering through the storm, the light grew bigger and warmer, and as they neared, he could make out the silhouette of a homely-looking inn, paired even with stables and a barn, with climbing ivy draped securely over the walls. To Draco, this was a sight for sore eyes, and he almost gasped in relief, despite the rain streaking through his clothes, his hair, his eyelashes, his bandages.

The Thestral wailed and stopped by the front gate, pacing restlessly. Draco slid off its back, the rain making everything slick and heavy, and he almost collapsed into a heap. He was sore and tired and confused, and when the front door opened, bathing the path in a glowing yellow light, he swore he could melt into a puddle right on the spot.

"Goodness me, my dear," came a svelte, kind voice, and Draco squinted, breathing fast and hard. A tall, shapely figure occupied the doorway, her long, curly black hair cascading down her back. "Come in out of this wretched rain, poor thing!"

A wave of gratitude washed over him then, and he patted the Thestral's neck. The creature, however, looked mightily unsettled, its pupil-less eyeballs twitching and its nostrils flaring. It stamped the ground impatiently, the sound masked by the howling of the wind. Draco frowned.

"What's gotten into you?" he asked curiously. When he tried to usher it forward, it shied away, skittering off restlessly, refusing to enter past the wooden fence.

He only shook his head as it departed to the side and trudged towards the doorway. By this point, he was too exhausted to care.

"Come on, dear," the woman in the doorway gestured enthusiastically, and Draco mounted the front steps. As he got closer, he could make out her fine features and glittering black eyes against the light. "We have food and drink, and plenty of hot water for a bath. How about that, hm?"

Draco felt the strange urge to cry at the motherly hint in her voice, and looked up at her as he entered. The lady had dark eyes and seductive features, and the wrinkles gathered at the corners of both eyes were the only indicators of her age.

Then he surveyed his surroundings. The inn was spacious but comfy, with honeysuckle yellow walls and brown floorboards and dark red carpets. In the corner, the stone fireplace roared, and the brass chandelier winked at him with its dozens of candles. Other than a few decorative plants and paintings, it was relatively simple, and he loved it.

"Thank you," he said, suddenly feeling very emotional, turning to face the innkeeper. "What shall I call you?"

The lady moved to close the door, and Draco was so busy trying not to drip on the wooden floorboards that he did not notice the triumphant smirk that spread across her face, or the wicked twinkle in her eye. When she turned back around, both were gone; there was nothing but the caring, sympathetic expression any matron might have upon seeing someone in Draco's state. She ran a comforting hand across his shoulder, and sent him a feline smile, eyes half-lidded like crescent moons.

"You can call me Auntie Bella."

* * *

 **final note :** this was unbeta'd, so please excuse my typos. Otherwise, please r&r! This story thrives off of your opinions, really.


	5. a thousand nights above you

**Disclaimer :** I do not own any aspect of J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter franchise or Neil Gaiman's Stardust franchise. Several lines in this chapter are taken directly from the Stardust movie script, as is the concept of catching lightning, and also do not belong to me. 'Nuff said.  
 **AN :** these chapters are getting harder and harder to write! But I shall do my best to wait it out till the end.  
 **Warnings/Other :** bad language, darker themes, some slightly graphic content.

* * *

 **Your Heart in Exchange for Mine**

 ** _by nightofowls_**

I saw the world from the stars' point of view,  
and it looked unbearably lonely.

― Shaun David Hutcherson, _We Are the Ants_

* * *

 _part five: a thousand nights above you_

* * *

"How do you like your bath? Warm, hot, or boil-a-lobster?" Auntie Bella wrapped her arm around Draco's shoulders, her grip firm.

He felt a little overwhelmed by her kindness. His voice was small and painfully shy, and he wanted to cringe at how demure and uncertain his reply sounded. "Um, I honestly don't know."

"Ah, then let me choose for you, and I'll have my husband take your horse to the stable." She ushered him up the carpeted wooden stairs, not letting go, barely whipping her head around to acknowledge her dopey-eyed husband. "Marcus?"

From behind the counter, a large man with unfocused eyes and uneven teeth ― and some troll blood, from the looks of it ― hunkered over, clambering atop the counter top and leaping off, charging straight out of the door without a second thought. Draco tried his best not to frown at the eccentric action, missing Auntie Bella's disgusted eye rolling.

(It did not strike Draco how awfully odd it was that a sweet innkeeper could see Thestrals, even to the point of almost bored disregard.)

"So, dear, what should I call you?" the matronly beldam asked once the door had slammed shut, her arm around his shoulder tight and reassuring. The candlelight caused shadows to dance across the walls.

"Just Draco would be fine," he replied quietly.

"Ah, like the constellation, hm?" Auntie Bella laughed, the sound throaty and rich. "Very fitting for a sweet thing like you."

"You're awfully kind." Draco blushed in spite of himself.

Auntie Bella maneuvered him to the corner of the room and pulled over the ornate claw-footed bathtub waiting by the wall. She unhooked the kettle, which was already boiling over the fire, and began mixing the bath water, throwing in fragrant salts and dried flowers. As he watched the aromatic steam twist and twirl from the bubbles, Draco felt weak in the knees at the prospect of a warm bath after the earlier ordeal.

"Millicent!"

A lumpy-looking girl with unrefined features and a mean glare traipsed over, a pile of towels dangling from her arm, and looked at him expectantly. Draco was taken aback by her unblinking scrutiny, especially as she very obviously looked him up and down, wrapped her two hands around his forearms, and pulled him close with a self-satisfied smile.

Auntie Bella got up from where she crouched by the tub and brushed herself down. "Alright, now, let's get you out of those wet things, shall we?"

"E-Excuse me?"

Her crossed arms and expectant look had him flushing. "Well, don't be shy! Those clothes need to wash, dear. The more time you waste, the more likely you are to get a cold, no?"

Biting his lip and looking away, Draco turned and began peeling off his rain-soaked garments. Millicent held up one of the towels to shield his privacy.

After all, what was one more awkward situation?

* * *

" _Harry_ ," came a whisper through the trees, and Harry's head shot up in alarm.

"Who's there? Draco, is that you?" His voice sounded rough, and he coughed as he staggered up.

" _Harry Potter, please protect our brother Draco,_ " beseeched the voice. Harry startled, but said nothing. " _Draco is in grave danger. The Thestral came to free him, but they are now heading into a trap... No star is safe in Grimmauld. The last to fall, three hundred years ago, was captured by the same witches who seek Draco now_ ― _"_

As if on cue, Harry's mind was suddenly filled with bright, flickering images: a girl with twinkling midnight eyes, mid-turn, her ebony hair flying about her like a river. The images continued shifting like in an old motion picture, jarring and explosive, as the disembodied voice continued.

" _They tricked her, cared for her, and when her heart was aglow once more, they cut it from her chest and ate it_ ―"

Harry could only watch in morbid fascination as the scene shifted. The girl lay back on a crinkled white sheet, eyes shut in ignorant bliss and hair splayed about her head like a halo, as a wrinkled hand lovingly smoothed over the stray hairs from her forehead. More hands pinned down her shoulders, and all he saw was a flash before a red cleaver was plunged into her chest and her eyes shot open and blood blossomed on her shirt, staining her clothes a gruesome crimson. Even though he saw it coming, he jolted at the gore, and once the images faded, he was only left with a bout of cold sweat.

" _There is no time to waste. A coach is coming your way_ ― _by any means possible, you must get on it_ ― _Run!_ "

He didn't need any further instruction.

Without hesitation, he tore through the brush, the wind rushing by his ears, the whisper in the trees drifting from his memory. Branches scratched at his face, and the cold settled into his bones and made his fingertips numb, and the roots tugged insistently at his feet, trying to trip him up, but he incorrigibly kept going, racing through the endless trees―

―And then he heard it, the sound of hooves furiously beating against the sun-baked earth, and he rushed towards it, stumbling over his own soles, reaching for the dark mass rushing through the undergrowth. He got closer and closer, reaching a desperate arm out as it thundered by, and with a final burst, he summoned up all of his courage and stubborn energy and _jumped_ ―

―And slammed right against the side of the carriage.

* * *

" _Traitor_..."

" _Murderer_..."

" _Backstabber_!"

" _Turncoat_ ―"

Severus spasmed, sweat coating his forehead, his hair plastered to his neck. In his dreams, figures with empty, maggot-filled eye sockets, coated in shriveled, decaying flesh, reached for him as he walked on a lone, never-ending path in the nothingness that was his subconscious, reaching up from the depths with their charred fingers to grab at his sleeve, his ankle, their sighs of death scratchy and hollow with the sound of rot.

" _You walk down a path of chaos, one with no hope of turning back._ "

Then the images shifted, and he saw a river of hair fierier than planets of red earth and eyes that outshone deep-sea jewels. Every night the same haunting picture ghosted about his fingertips, just out of his reach, peals of mirthful laughter ringing out through the pitch black. Every night, he lost himself in that bell-like sound until the laughs turned mocking and sharper than blades and he woke up, feverish.

Severus stiffened and came to. The darkness around him instantly shifted into clarity.

He was in his own cabin, safely in his own bed, not drowning in a sea of the dead.

All was well.

Unease filled him as he noiselessly glided out onto the main deck. Night had fallen, and the _HMS Merope_ , Riddle's very own brig ― which had been gifted to him upon his induction into His Imperial Majesty Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore's royal service, listlessly beat down the current. In the distance, a long-brewing storm wailed and battered at the Grimmauldian landscape, steadily creeping their way, obscuring the stars and casting ululating gales their way. His own robes fluttered about his ankles as if frantic. In the sky hung no moon.

Through the silence peeked Tom Riddle's smooth voice.

"Severus."

The only indication of his presence was the weighty slithering of snakeskin across the pristine floorboards: Riddle's most coveted pet, Nagini, who ― rumor had it ― had free reign of Riddle's chambers and workplace, and was supposedly responsible for several eerily coincidental attacks near the homes of reputable political enemies. These incidents were suspiciously overlooked in the paperwork.

"My Lord," he replied quietly, fixing his gaze on a spot in the distance.

"You are my most trusted adviser, are you not?" Riddle's voice slithered through the shadows, piercing through the darkness like a needle through a cloth of sky. "My most loyal comrade. I'd say, even under that old coot, we still made quite the team, did we not? We saw everything through. His policies, his mercy, his weakness."

He was beside him now, but Severus made a conscious effort to remain calm. His grip on the railing handle, though, did not attest to this veneer.

"Yes, My Lord," he uttered.

"Even when―" He could feel Nagini's weight slithering about his ankles, and tensed slightly with the pressure. Riddle's tone remained airy. "―he began getting sick. Even when there was a slight change in his daily potion dosage, the one used to treat his cataracts.

"Even when―" Severus could feel the tangibleness of the former king's adviser's serrated grin, and felt a bout of cold sweat run down his back. "―he started taking unfamiliar concoctions in unknown doses, no? Who would've known that tampering with a potion ingredient or two, changing poppy to essence of hemlock with the help of our very own Potions Master's ministrations, would have such lasting effects? What a shame."

"A shame, indeed." He needed a drink. Desperately.

The adviser's voice took on a hard, lilting edge. "Now that we have come to such desperate times, Severus, I need to ascertain your loyalty to my pledge to the throne. You understand that."

There was a lump in his throat, and he could not for the life of him figure out how he managed to speak over it without any tremors. "Yes, My Lord, that is completely understand. We are, after all, in times of tumult."

"Very good, Severus. After all, wouldn't it be a shame to throw away the rapport we've built for so many years? A waste, wouldn't you say?"

"Absolutely, My Lord."

Severus had to strain to hear the man's voice, for its pitch had dived so low he could hardly make it out over the sound of the waves lightly crashing against the cliffs in the distance.

"Good. Over the course of the next week, I will need your support more than ever. See that you do not fail to keep up."

"... Yes, My Lord." He could feel the man's sneering grin, and wanted to punch it off more than ever. Instead, he increased his grip on the railing and prayed that he did not leave any dents in the metal that would give him away.

"Anyway," Riddle's voice resumed its cutting-edge cheer. "The star is currently alone at an inn on the mainland. In due time, it will leave. My spells tell me it is not alone, and is headed for Godric's Hollow in due time. We simply need to figure out a way to intercept it before the week is over, and I have just the plan. Are you ready, Severus?"

He wanted to say no. He wanted to throw Riddle overboard, into a depth of ocean from which he would never return, to just _kill him and be done with it_ ― but he could not. He wanted to say _fuck you_ to the madman who ruined his life, crumpling his supports from moment to moment, piece to piece.

Instead, he said, "More so than ever, My lord."

* * *

Harry toppled back into the dust with a groan, pain wracking his entire frame, and clapped a hand over his definitely bruised nose.

"Whoa!" called the carriage driver as the stagecoach jolted harshly at the impact, and snapped at the reins.

The carriage stuttered to a stop, and the driver leaped off, the picture of indignant righteousness. Through his blurred vision, he could make out the man's stout body and his onion-like face, his beady features and protruding teeth. For a minute he thought the passenger was a rat in human form, but when he squeezed his eyes shut and reopened them, it was only a human face, and any semblance of animalistic features was gone.

The rat-like man stomped over to him, sputtering, and leaned in very close, brandishing his sword with a showy swing. For the second time in the past three days, Harry found himself with a blade at his throat. "So Riddle insists on sending a boy to do his job, does he? I'll show the lot of you!"

"No, no, wait, please!" As the man poked the tip threateningly at his jugular, barely piercing the skin, Harry fought another moan of pain and frantically struggled up. "I don't know any riddles. I just need a lift, is all."

The man didn't look convinced, so Harry raised both hands in beseeching surrender, trying to keep his breathing at bay and his head clear. "Look at me. Look at me―I'm unarmed. Please― _please_ ―let me ride with you."

The longer he took, the closer Draco would be to danger. And he didn't want that ― he needed to bring Cho her star, after all. At least, that was what he told himself.

The man's consideration brought him back to attention.

"I'm afraid not. I'm on a mission of utmost importance," was the reply.

A small part of Harry snorted at the nasally, wheezing voice, but he tamped it down and put on his straightest face.

"Well, all the more reason to take me with you," he smiled widely, hoping to come across as anything but a shifty hitchhiker in the middle of the deep, dark woods. Nighttime had already fallen. "There may come a time when you need a second pair of hands. Sir? Please. Maybe fate had our two paths converge. Maybe it brought me to you, just as it brought you to me."

Inwardly, he flinched at how transparent his wheedling was.

"Fine," the rat man conceded with a disapproving shake of his head. "Get on."

Harry let out a breath he had no idea he'd been holding. Without further prompting, he clambered up the steps and atop the driver's bench.

"Oh, yes, thank you, sir."

* * *

"Feeling better?"

Bellatrix rested her head on her folded arms, leaning against the rim of the tub. Underneath her serene smile, she could hardly keep her control at bay: the star was right there in front of her, his small smile getting more lackadaisical by the minute, almost completely submerged in the fragrant bath water save for his head. She could make out a faint glow emanating from his skin, and the sight of it filled her with endless excitement.

The star's heart would be hers for sure. It was so close she could already taste eternal youth once more.

"Much, thank you," replied Draco. "The warm water's done me a world of good."

"You see?" Bellatrix clapped her hands together. "That's the power of a nice, hot bath. How about your leg―any improvements?"

Dipping her hand into the water, she waved her hand around, discreetly casting a Bubbling spell underwater and a Healing charm at his wounded leg; through the steam, nobody would be able to see her wand anyway. Draco gasped as the salts in the water effervesced around him and the throbbing heat in his leg miraculously dissipated with them.

He glanced down at his leg and wiggled his toes around underwater, eyes widening disbelievingly when he felt no strain. "That is extraordinary."

"Isn't it just?" Bellatrix straightened and reached for a towel. She did not take her eyes off him for a second, for she could notice a faint glow lighting up the top of his head, and expectation welled up within her. "After all, it's the least I could do. I'm just glad you're feeling better. You do seem happier, yourself, too."

"I do feel happier," the star agreed readily, senses still clouded from the perfumed steam. "Looser. Less troubled."

"That's just lovely to hear." When he made to get up, Bellatrix handed him both the towel and a fluffy white bathrobe she had snagged from a hanger earlier. Out of respect for his privacy, she turned away, hiding a smirk, and Millicent held up another while averting her gaze so he was shielded from view once again. Within _moments_ she would find what she had been waiting for for centuries. Nobody else could understand the joy she felt at finally having something tangible in her grasp, having had to bide her time for so long. The rustle of the matching cottony slippers scraping against the wooden floorboard alerted her that Draco was done.

"Are you finished?" she called out, just in case, and busied herself with folding the drenched garments into a tidy stack.

"Y-Yes."

"Wonderful," she effused, and placed her hands on Draco's shoulders. The tips of his starlit hair were still damp, dripping spots onto his robed shoulders, and his eyelashes glistened from the moisture. "Nothing like a good soak to smooth over a day's troubles, no? Come, let's get you to bed."

Then she took him by the wrist and guided him up the wooden stairwell to a cozy, solitary bedroom lit only by the few candles standing on the bedside table. The storm clouds clustered along the window. Once he was seated on the edge of the bed, she crouched down so they were eye level.

"Now, I may just be an innkeeper's wife, but I've been told that I've a healer's hands." As if for proof, she raised both her hands, palms facing inward and fingers splayed outward, and wiggled them. "I'd be glad to give you a massage before you rest."

"A... massage?" Draco blinked. "What's that?"

Bellatrix looked the rightful combination of horrified and pitying as she folded back the covers. "Never had a―well I never! There's nothing like a massage that can send you off on the finest and deepest night's sleep. It'll send you right off to Dreamland, it will."

Draco's tone held a note of doubt. Gingerly, he sat on the edge of the bed. "Well, I _do_ have trouble sleeping at night," he admitted, and Bellatrix chuckled. He was playing right into the ruse. He didn't stand a chance.

"Alright, let Auntie Bella handle it for you then, hm? Lie on your back, dear." She considered the situation as Draco wearily toed off his slippers and obligingly shifted into a prostrate position, letting his hair fan out on the pillow. "Oh, you know what? Why don't you close your eyes? Helps you drift off better that way, it does."

Draco silently pressed aside a small smile and obligingly let his lids flutter shut. Bellatrix parted the collar of the bathrobe ever so slightly. A weighty green locket peeked out from under the folds of the robe, and she cautiously nudged it aside lest it cause trouble. Once she was done, she quietly surveyed the scene before her, fingers gently kneading his shoulder so as to seem occupied.

The star was finally glowing. It seemed as if he was radiating a kind of golden, celestial light, its rays languorously touching the hearts of everything around him. The witch could feel his happiness seeping through her, felt it fill her up to the core till she was brimming, and she hated every minute of it, hated how this infernal being could make her feel like a snake out of its skin.

But alas, his time on this earth was ending, and hers was only just beginning.

Making sure to keep quiet, Bellatrix bent down, keeping her gaze pinned on the star lest he make any sudden movements or open his eyes and notice what she was doing, her hand outstretched, and probed around under the bed. After a few clumsy grabs, she found what she was looking for: her trusty ruby red cleaver, gleaming in the lamplight like newly-spilled blood. The witch wrapped her bony fingers around it and painstakingly picked it up, trying not to make any sound, and the sharpened blade dragged across the wood with a terrifying creak.

 _So close_...

Downstairs there was an unintelligible bang, and the howling of the wind reverberated through the inn, but she ignored it. Nothing was in her way; nothing could stop her. The star was laid out in front of her, perfectly willing and unsuspecting of his imminent doom...

She brought the knife to her side and stood to her full height, and grinned, savoring the taste of success. It was the sweetest she had felt in many ages. Bellatrix raised the cleaver, her knuckles gripping tight and burning white, eyes searing with an indescribable madness, and―

" _Hello_? Service! _Anyone_?" an unfamiliar voice hollered downstairs, and Bellatrix jumped, torn from her reverie, startling so much that she almost gasped aloud, and hastily slid the cleaver under the bed once more.

Draco's eyes snapped open, and he blinked most innocuously, and the witch could hardly contain her quivering rage at the fool who had interrupted her. She cursed under her breath as the opportunity shriveled and vanished, sifting through her grasp once more.

"Who was that?" Draco inquired. Bellatrix stifled her outraged shriek and tampered it with a reassuring smile instead.

"You just relax here, darling," she said through her teeth. "I'll be back once I've taken care of this other customer."

Once her back was turned she hurried off, fuming, and swore that whoever was down there would face her wrath. With a spiteful vengeance, she gathered up her skirts and hastened up the stairs, bursting into the tiny loft at the very top of the steps, and rifled around the drawers.

" _Hellooo_?" There came the sound of the front door slamming, and Bellatrix gritted her teeth. More determinedly, she dug her hand around, and finally fished out a small black glass container. Her only choice was to get rid of the intruder ― any interference could decidedly damage her chances at getting the star's heart.

 _Draught of Living Death_ , read the frayed yellowed label: a potion so potent that a few drops could down even the most powerful of men. With a burst of snide conviction, Bellatrix unscrewed a bottle of wine from the corner and poured the entire bottle in. To make sure it settled, she recapped it and shook it, watching the murky black liquid spread like ink in water and finally dissolve.

Completely satisfied with her work, the witch shoved aside the sinister grin threatening to break across her face, and schooled her expression back into placidity. She grabbed a tray and two extra goblets, and stormed back downstairs. These strangers were a major threat.

The only encouraging thing was that either way, the star was hers: he wouldn't be going anywhere tonight.

* * *

Harry had tensely kept up a rather tempered conversation with the strange rodent-like man, who he strongly suspected to be nobility of some sort, and his suspicions had been confirmed. The man's name was Peter Pettigrew, and he was one of the head Councilors to the throne of King Dumbledore, may his soul rest in peace, he had a grotesque metal hand, and he was on the search for a stone after having been the target of many attempted assassinations in the past at the hands of his rivals, namely one Tom Riddle.

While Pettigrew's wild descriptions of this unknown foe and his daring escapades had Harry seeing serpentine features and glowing red eyes, he silently told himself that anyone with a name like Tom Riddle was probably less scary than he let on. And that this Councilor Peter may have a knack for exaggerating.

Not that he actually knew, of course―who was he to judge?

They pressed on for a while through the rain, the carriage bumping most unsteadily along the cobblestones and the now muddied dirt of the crudely woven roadways. All Harry could hear were the driver's shouting above the roaring of the thunder and the merciless beating down of the rain and the horses' frightful protests and rebellious shrieks at being forced to drive on through the storm. Each time a thunderbolt flashed angrily through the sky, the land shook in fear, mightily jostling the stagecoach.

"My workings show that the stone is very close," Pettigrew yelled over the wind. Harry only nodded, feigning enthusiasm; in reality, he was too strung up with anxiety.

"Perhaps we should stop at a nearby inn, wait for the storm to pass," he felt compelled to say. He had no idea why, but, seeing as this was Grimmauld, and all sorts of wildish things happened in Grimmauld, he did not doubt the merit of his words. "Might be easier."

"You make a good point, boy," said Pettigrew, nervously picking at his nails. "W-Wait it out. Yes. That sounds... That sounds about right."

They exchanged no further words for a while, until a light glowed up ahead and they picked up the pace.

"Speak of the Devil!" Pettigrew exclaimed, urging the horses forward. Harry was only happy to find a temporary reprieve from the storm. "That should be it!"

As they neared, the horses finally slowed to a bumpy stop. Pettigrew lumbered out, head bowed as he tried to avoid the rainwater from dripping into his eyes. The carriage had stopped in front of a quaint inn with austere brick walls and flaming candlelight pouring from all floors.

Neither of them heard the slight _whish_ that sounded inside the stagecoach, nor did they see the three plaintive figures that had appeared at the crack of the sound. The four newcomers had gotten bored of Gilderoy Lockhart's incessant flirting and Dolores Umbridge's terrible cackling, so they had decided to bother the third contender, which so happened to be poor Councilor Pettigrew.

"Ooh, I see a fire through the wall," gushed the ghostly apparition of Sir Nicholas, clapping bawdily. "It must be warm and toasty inside. So much better than this infernal rain."

"I can feel the cold dripping through my wounds," Rufus Scrimgeour agreed. Beside them, Pius Thicknesse and Cornelius Fudge both nodded, the picture of solemnity. Without waiting for the two who were alive, the four spirits excitedly glided into the building, leaving the coach riders out in the rain.

Meanwhile, Harry and the Councilor exchanged a look.

" _Hello_?" Councilor Pettigrew cleared his throat and called with false bravado, his voice wheedling and nasally as ever. When there was no reply, he quickly grew impatient, and began tapping his foot with aggravated measure. He pounded his fist against the door. "Service? _Anyone_!"

Nobody answered.

The wind howled.

"Maybe we should try looking at the next inn, especially if the stone is as close as you say it is," Harry tried reasoning as he gripped the nearest horse's harness, but the councilor would hear nothing of it, and waved his suggestion off in a manner one would an annoying fly. Harry rolled his eyes at this flippant manner.

"I'll give it another try."

After a few more moments, the silhouette of a roughly-built man, who looked as though his Creator had no time to make a masterpiece and instead slapped random parts of clay together to form him, approached, his countenance visible through the blurred glass window, and wordlessly bent to open the door.

"At last," Pettigrew sputtered, trying hard to maintain the airy facade. "We require accommodation. Please help my friend take the horses to the stables."

He leaned back and ordered, "Be a lad and put the horses in the stable, will you? I-I'll go negotiate. It _is_ what we councilors do best," and Harry grudgingly obliged, seeing as he was no closer to finding Draco and his nerves were eating him alive. The oddly silent innkeeper waddled over and began ushering the horses towards the gated barnyard. Pulling his jacket up over his head for a temporary shelter, Harry slumped towards the barn also, deciding to make company with the unfortunate ungulates.

At least the barn had a roof, he thought sullenly. That was all he really needed at the moment.

Councilor Pettigrew, at this time, stomped out his sopping boots on the rug, leaving muddy tracks all over the carpet, and nudged the door shut. The reception was empty, save for him, and he shivered as the gust of warmth enveloped him. Surveying his surroundings, his gaze landed on a tub, already filled and bubbling in a most welcoming manner. Without any hesitation, he gleefully trotted over.

"Well, I suppose it's adequate," he sighed to himself, forgetting about his surroundings and instead focusing on the toasty fire warming the hearth. Without further delay, he undressed and soaked himself into the tub, carelessly tossing his damp robes onto the ground nearby. The innkeeper's wife would be bound to pick that up later and wash the garments very, _very_ clean, he gathered. The fragrance of the steaming water made the councilor realize just how sore his feet were, despite having sat in a stagecoach all day and not really doing much else.

He had almost drifted off when he heard a series of light footsteps bounding down the stairs, and he opened his eyes just in time to see a boy with hair the color of starlight padding down the steps. He looked very young and very beautiful ― he was around that boy Harry Potter's age, by the looks of it ― and was swathed most comfily in a fluffy white bathrobe. He stilled when he saw the councilor lounging in the bathtub, a most intrigued frown settling onto his features.

"Oh," Councilor Pettigrew muttered. "I'm accustomed to better service, but, alas, you're awake... I suppose that counts for something."

"The stone!" Pius Thicknesse gaped at the boy, and rushed forward with an outstretched hand, as if he made to touch it and confirm its presence. The other three ghosts crowded around him, gazing in rapture at the tiny sliver of gold chain visible on his neck.

"He has the stone!" Sir Nicholas gushed.

"The stone, the stone!" Rufus Scrimgeour moaned. If only he was alive...

"If I were alive, I'd conk you on the head, you oblivious fool!" Cornelius Fudge screeched in the ― indeed ― oblivious Pettigrew's ear.

Nobody heard them.

The councilor turned to the boy. "Prepare your best room," he ordered, clearly in the dark as to who the newcomer was.

A few moments passed before the sound of footsteps bustling down the stairs alerted them to another presence. Down the stairs sashayed a voluptuous woman with angular dark eyes and tumbling black curls, and Pettigrew's eyes practically shriveled up in their sockets.

"He's got the stone, you nitwit!" Rufus Scrimgeour ran over and barked in Pettigrew's ear, but to no avail. He bopped the councilor on the head several times, but still the man remained motionless, lost in his own mind.

"Stone, stone!" crowed Sir Nicholas, too excited to keep his dangling head from swinging too and fro. When the almost-severed specimen nearly hit poor old Pius Thicknesse in the face, he shoved Sir Nicholas aside with a grimace and knelt by the bathtub beside Pettigrew, waiting patiently to see if the rat-faced man would ever realize.

As Councilor Pettigrew reclined in the soapy water, head resting on the rim of the tub, hesitant footsteps drifted across the corner of the room. He turned his head, preparing to chastise the lady for returning so late, only to see the boy with the starlit hair eye him with a frown.

"Hello," he attempted a friendly smile, but judging by the conflicted cloudiness in the boy's grey eyes, he did not seem to be making the greatest first impression.

Then again, he _was_ sitting in a tub, stark naked ― that was bound to be peculiar even in its own way.

Idly he stretched out his arms and rested them at the back of his head, the (rather disgusting) epitome of languor. "You needn't fret. I am more than happy to pay for your services. Run along now."

When there wasn't a reply, he tried again. "I am Councilor Pettigrew, Chair of the Governors of the Hogwarts Castle Board."

"I―"

The boy's befuddled expression told him he was about to reply, but at that very moment a voluptuous woman with tumbling black curls and slight crinkles at the corners of her dark eyes bustled down the steps, gathering her skirt in one hand and balancing a tray with two goblets in the other. She paused on the landing when she noticed the tense atmosphere.

"I'll thank you not to bother my guest, sir," she said archly, moving so she was standing right beside the tub, blocking his view of the younger guest. "I am the lady of this inn."

"Fret not, no harm was done," Pettigrew replied flippantly, really not caring so much when there were bubbles floating idly about his shoulders. Ah, luxury.

The lady shook her head with an exhale and lowered the tray to eye level. "Glass of wine?"

The councilor sat up eagerly, spilling water over the edge of the tub with the sudden movement. As his hand greedily reached for the goblet, he paused. The lady only looked on expectantly.

"Oh, no," Cornelius Fudge was on the edge of his seat as he and the other ghosts rested by the window sill.

Sir Nicholas gravely shook his head.

"Bad idea," voiced Pius Thicknesse.

"But he's stupid enough to take it," Rufus Scrimgeour slapped a hand on his forehead in exasperation.

"No, no, no," he cautioned, and then scoffed. The memory of the poison causing his lungs to water and his throat to close up seemed all too fresh in his mind. He seemed very proud to have dodged a bullet of sorts, and equally proudly explained: "Until my rivals are dead, I have vowed that I shall drink no wine but my own."

"He's such a prude." Pius Thicknesse shook his head in disgust. "Should've realized sooner, hm?"

"Dumb luck," echoed the others, nodding frenetically.

Upon consideration, Pettigrew added, "Although my friend in the stables may prefer some."

"That's no trouble," the lady simpered most kindly. As the councilor discreetly leaned back to sneak another look at the other guest, she pursed her lips and clandestinely shifted to block his view with her skirts. When he looked up in alarm, she only gave him that same disarming smile.

"And perhaps your best room?" he added, pasting in a bumbling smile. Again, he tried to peek; the mistress moved again.

He gave up, gazing back up at her most fixedly, and her smile grew.

"Of course. I shall have my daughter Millicent deliver a glass to your esteemed friend."

The innkeeper's wife sashayed away, delicately passing the tray on to a girl standing inconspicuously behind her. Pettigrew did not notice the calculating glance she shared with the lumpy maid as she shuffled off towards the door. When Millicent passed the blonde boy, she smirked in a way that could only be construed as flirtatious, and he stiffly sent a smile back.

Sir Nicholas glanced over her shoulder and peered at the goblet on her tray, craning his head over with his hands. "Well, that doesn't look good."

The other ghosts flitted after Millicent as she made for the door, only to stop and float back to their original nook when they felt the cold gusts of wind clawing in from the outside. The innkeeper's wife hurried back up the stairs like she had some urgent business to attend to, but to what the councilor could not fathom.

Once the room was empty save for the councilor and the boy, Pettigrew spoke again.

"My apologies. I assumed that―"

The boy opened his mouth, and he changed topic.

"Ah, never mind it! Traveling alone, are you?" Feigning nonchalance, the rat-like man poked both legs out of the water and wiggled his toes about in midair, and then crossed his ankles and rested them on the tub rim. All this time, he stared almost arrogantly at his own leg, and did missed the mildly squeamish expression that took over the blonde boy's face. "I understand completely. I, myself, _just_ stabled my own four black stallions and carriage. Well―I _say_ mine. It belonged to my _predecessor_..."

Bellatrix almost tripped in her hurry to get up the stairs, fists clenching tightly on her skirts. This godforsaken mortal was ruining her chances at eternal youth, and he would pay dearly for the complication. The witch raced up the stairs, back up to the now abandoned bedroom, and very decisively snatched up the cleaver from where it lay in wait under the bed. If she had to resort to dirty work, she would. She was Bellatrix, and she was ruthless, and she would not back down.

As she hustled back down the stairs and paused by a wall, hidden from view, she could still make out the annoying nobleman's pitiful boasting.

"There was no creature he could not best. In fact, he rode no horses or other common beasts of any sort―in his youth, he rode a _camel_ , simply because he thought it was _funny_ , and it _was_ comical, to say the least. When he passed, the carriage came to me, of course, as _I_ was the most natural suitor for such a coveted treasure to be bestowed upon."

As he talked, the councilor reclined with a sense of utmost confidence paramount to none, deliberately flexing his arms as he flaunted what little he really had. Draco looked equal amounts mortified and obliging to politely listen to his rambling as he stood rooted to the spot, nodding vapidly at the correct intervals. All these years he had been up in heavens, secretly unsatisfied ― yet with no confidant, but when it really counted, he had to land himself in what was undoubtedly the most uncomfortable spot on Earth.

The ghosts, also, were in cahoots by this point.

"He's got the stone!" Cornelius Fudge wailed, clawing at his own disfigured face, which had suffered most greatly in his fall. "Why can't he see it?"

"Because the bastard's a lucky moron," Pius Thicknesse rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, fed up with the others' yapping. Even in the afterlife, he could get no rest. When he was still alive, the others yakked at him all day long; now that he had finally gotten some rest, the others simply _insisted_ on following him. The poor man could never catch a break.

Rufus Scrimgeour grumbled his accord. "I second that notion. It's a wonder how that brainless ninny is still alive while we're stuck here until someone becomes king."

"Imagine Pettigrew as king," mused Sir Nicholas, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Grimmauld might fall apart."

"Not unless he falls apart first," entreated a suddenly very brooding Thicknesse.

"You're right. He can't even see the bloody stone," seconded Scrimgeour, gravely scrunching up his nose in disapproval as Pettigrew raised a somewhat suggestive eyebrow at the blonde, who looked uncomfortably traumatized.

Meanwhile, the heedless Pettigrew paid this no mind. "And, they say it's the _largest_ in _all_ of Grimmauld," he finished, and flicked at his bathwater in the most exaggerated bout of swagger a seedy man like him could manage.

Finally, the blonde boy gave him a delicate, slightly pained smile. "How nice for you," he remarked, feigning cheer, and gestured over his shoulder, turning away. His voice was soft, and his smile, however fleeting, reminded Pettigrew of a Grimmauldian sunset. "Um, if you'll excuse me―"

As the councilor blithely nodded, prepared to direct his attention elsewhere, he caught a flash of gold in his periphery. His eyes widened as he directed his gaze towards the boy's neck, latching onto a flash of muted jade, and he felt his mouth run dry.

"Hold on," he instructed imperiously, and the boy paused mid-step and turned, eyes questioning. Pettigrew's gaze fell onto a gold chain and a heavy-looking emerald stone.

 _Was that the stone?_

 _No, it couldn't be_.

He had to make sure.

"That stone you're wearing," he pointed with a frown, tone disbelieving, heatedly scrutinizing the locket. "It can't be."

The blonde boy brushed back a stray strand of hair and glanced down at the locket circling his neck, inquisitively looking back up at the man in the bathtub, equally perplexed.

"Excuse me?"

From the corner, the spirits groaned impatiently.

"Finally!" Rufus Scrimgeour, who had previously resigned himself to watching the debacle unfold, jumped up in excitement. "Thank you!"

Pius Thicknesse let out a breath. "Stupid idiot."

"He finally notices! Hallelujah!" Cornelius Fudge folded his arms crossly. "If it were up to me, I would've had his head ages ago."

"Well, it isn't you, is it?" Sir Nicholas deflected, clapping his hands together in excited anticipation. "Good work, Petty, old boy!"

Pettigrew stretched out a dripping arm, palm up and open expectantly. His expression was ugly and haughty, features morphing and distorted threateningly like that of a rat's. His voice was sickeningly, cloyingly sweet as he beckoned to the boy.

"Come here, and let me see it."

* * *

The muted screaming of the rain outside suddenly amplified as the barn door opened and a figure slipped in.

From where he was standing, petting one of Pettigrew's stallions on the nose, Harry looked up to see a broad-featured girl with mean, squinting eyes and coarse brown curls approach with a smile. On her hands she balanced a tray with a single ornate goblet, and stopped in front of him with an earnest look in her eye.

"Oh, thank you," he turned to her with a grin, shifting his bag strap on his shoulder just to find something to occupy his hands. "That's very kind of you, thank you very much. What's your name?"

The girl beamed back at him and turned to leave, tucking the tray under her arm as she made to go.

In a scratchy, decidedly male voice, she replied, "Zacharias," and flounced off.

" _What_ ―?"

Harry was too startled at the discrepancy between the voice and the face, and shook his head, playing it off as an illusion of the mind. Perhaps he was just tired. After all, a lot had happened in the past two days. From almost getting mauled by a unicorn-slaying demon rag, to meeting half-giants, to riding on flying creatures, to getting wrongfully imprisoned by the Fair Folk...

Perhaps he _was_ going crazy.

And Cho.

Harry missed her.

He missed her easy smile and her fleeting giggle, the scent of lavender that was so characteristic of her drifting in the wind, wafting long after she was gone. He longed to hold her close, to hug her, even once ― that was one of the things he found himself occasionally regretting every now and then, when his mind was idle, how he never once even got the chance to really show her what she meant to him, and now here he was, with little hope of ever returning successfully in time before she got married to someone who would never _appreciate_ her the way _he_ did―

A million miles away, lost in thought, he raised the goblet to his lips, and then the barn door exploded, flying off its hinges as was ripped from the frame. Before a very alarmed Harry could react, something heavy crashed into him, knocking him to the ground with a _thud_.

Through a mouthful of straw, Harry blearily glanced up, still bewildered. The glass had been flung aside during his fall, and he grasped at it, only to blanch.

The hay bedding the ground in front of him was sizzling, and had withered away into nothingness.

Harry's eyes widened, and in horrified realization, his gaze shifted to that of the now empty goblet. The wine was poisoned.

Putting on a burst of speed, he sprinted out of the barn.

He had to warn the councilor.

* * *

The councilor was quickly growing impatient, for Draco made no move to step closer, unable to move.

"You have no _idea_ what you're messing with, boy!" the man thundered, knuckles whitening and rigid. His features were contorted into a snarl, a feral look blowing his pupils so wide that as his face puffed up in purples and reds, what little was left of the whites of his eyes bulged. Draco uneasily took a step back.

"I am Councilor _Peter Pettigrew,_ and I will _not be made a fool of_! _I demand_ you to hand me that locket!"

A shadow darted past up ahead, causing the beams to creak, and a distraught Draco ventured a glance up at the beams ― but saw nothing. The councilor's enraged shout quickly recaptured his attention.

" _Bring me the stone_! _N_ _ow_!"

The front door suddenly burst open, letting in a shower of pelting rain, and a drenched figure burst through the door. Eyes widening impossibly, Draco sucked in a breath as the lightning suddenly crackled, thundering deafeningly, illuminating the newcomer's features.

Could it be Harry?

"Councilor Pettigrew, don't touch anything they give you!" the painfully familiar voice cried out emphatically.

Councilor Pettigrew whipped his head around at the intrusion, comically startled as the boy Harry rushed into the room, stumbling from the inertia. Nobody noticed the hurried footsteps behind him descending the stairwell.

"They tried to―" Harry stumbled forward, holding up a hand to stop the councilor from doing _something,_ whatever he was doing, when ―

There came another figure rapidly running down the steps, hair flying in streaks, clutching something that glinted grimly in the light of the candelabra. Draco was far too taken aback by what was happening that he did not have any time to react before Auntie Bella, her eyes flashing something dark and desperate, flew towards Councilor Pettigrew, raising her arm up high so that the object in her hand flashed in the light ― was that a _knife_? ― and swept her hand downwards in a single clean arc, neatly slicing across the nobleman's throat in a fell swoop.

Draco could not stifle his cry of dismay as the light in the councilor's eyes dimmed instantly, like a candle snuffed out by a careless breeze, paused forevermore in action, mouth open in distress.

The man's head fell back, eyes rolling in a most detached manner to the back of his head, gaping gracelessly at the ceiling in his instant death. The large gash, slashing under his jawbone, welled up. A flood of thick blood, the color an uninhibited red that was so dark it was almost puce, cascaded from the wound, staining his front and tainting the bathwater a morbid cardinal.

Harry was aghast at the sight, abruptly stopping in his step

The ghosts in the corner winced at the gruesome sight, averting their gazes and covering their mouths respectfully, only to gaze at the empty spot beside them, where a spectral figure began forming, not unlike the way a mist descends, out of the blue, over a moor. The figure materialized partially, never taking a living form, and instead took its place beside the rest of the apparitions.

"Ouch," Sir Nicholas interjected most sagely.

"Well, that was bad," Pius Thicknesse groaned in sympathy.

The now dead Councilor Peter Pettigrew blinked a few times as he appeared, frowning ― he had no idea what had just happened. One moment he had been looking at the stone, and then the next there was a most curious sensation, and now ―

He glanced down, only to find that there was blood staining his front, and he was completely unclothed. When he turned and saw the deformed and incapacitated forms of his former colleagues, he would have jumped out of his skin, had he any.

"W-What?" he stuttered. The others only raised their brows expectantly at him, waiting for him to catch on, and instead took to eyeing his more private areas in a very, _very_ disapproving manner. A resigned Peter was left only sighing. "Oh, never mind."

Auntie Bella ― only now she was no longer _Auntie Bella,_ _she couldn't be_! ― loomed over the inanimate figure, which was now slumped against the rim of the sullied tub, brandishing her knife triumphantly. Her eyes glittered like crushed beetles, and her breath was coming out in uneven puffs as she smiled maniacally at the dead councilor.

Breaking out of his horror-struck reverie, Harry whirled around, finally focusing on Draco. He bolted over so they were face to face, closer than they had been in what seemed like an eternity, and grabbed the star about the wrists so their gazes were locked on one another's. Draco was too stunned to do anything otherwise, for in any other situation Harry was almost sure he would smack him atop the head.

"Are you alright?" he pressed in concern, searching in Draco's endless grey eyes, which were clouded with fear. The star wordlessly nodded, relaxing slightly under his grip.

"Marcus!" shrieked the lady. Her hair had begun to frazzle at the ends like burnt crisps from a lightning shock, and her face was violently warping into a contemptuous snarl. Swinging her cleaver around, she decided to forego the body floating in the tub, waiting restlessly as the innkeeper, who had previously been curled up on the floor behind the counter, unnoticed by the others, perked up. She pointed derisively at Harry. "Get him!"

From where he was crouched, the innkeeper turned to gauge his newly appointed targets, overbite threateningly apparent as he chewed at his own mustache. With a brutish, carnal grunt, the hunkering man bounded atop the counter in a single leap, and sprang at them, his large, calloused mitts outstretched and nostrils flaring.

Harry's gaze darted towards the open door in the split second that the man charged at them. Maybe they would have enough time to run outside, but then what? How would they leave? The innkeeper hurtled over, and the remaining two newcomers backed away, straight into the wall, eyes wide in alarm, with nowhere to run.

Then, out of nowhere, a high, keening shriek pierced the air, followed by the drumming of hoof beats. Another dark shape barged through the door, which was currently flying off its hinges, straight at the innkeeper. As Harry watched on in awe, the creature ― which seemed to be a translucent horse with a black skeleton ― barreled straight at the innkeeper.

Neither party seemed to have any notion of stopping, and so they collided head on, smashing together with a mighty crash not unlike that of a boulder rolling into a crevice and splintering into thousands of debris.

Harry jumped, and felt Draco tense behind him.

The force of the collision sent the innkeeper flying backwards, hitting the wall with a muffled thump. As he fell, his body crumpled in on itself, its skin crinkling like used paper, and when it collapsed onto the beer barrels lining the wall it was but a scruffy old billy goat. Harry blanched at the sight, but wisely chose not to dwell on it. He had seen enough in the past few days to know that something strange was afoot.

The skeleton-horse creature whinnied indignantly, tossing its head, and reared back, kicking out at the lady with the cleaver.

Unimpressed, she pointed a thin, jagged stick made of walnut ― a _wand!_ Harry belatedly realized ― at it, and through her lips passed a sound that was not of the human realm: a voice of destruction and chaos.

" _Fiendfyre_."

Fiery green flames licked up the floor and furniture, engulfing everything they touched, reeking of destruction. Smoke filled the shack, and Harry found it hard to breathe as the stench of oxides and embers overwhelmed his senses. The lady with the unkempt black locks and the psychotic shadows dimming her eyes stood in the middle, shrieking with laughter, her unhinged cackles reverberating off the collapsing walls. Her voice was disembodied, distorted as it echoed across the room, when she spoke.

As Harry grabbed Draco's wrist and made a run for the door, she glowered at their pitiful escape attempt and spelled it shut. At once the doorway was engulfed in flame, licking at them with white hot tongues.

Desperately, Draco yanked on Harry's sleeve. "The window!" he mouthed, tugging him over, only to have the witch seal said opening shut again, once more submerging the exit in hellfire.

"You little wasp, you," her voice was sickly sweet as she eyed Harry. He broke into a cold sweat at the soulless black pits of her eyes, and, without thinking, he reached over and pulled the trembling Draco behind him. "Ruining everything with your bumbling human hands."

"Don't you come any closer," he warned ineffectually. The witch stepped forward, forcing them to inch back as far as possible without stepping into the all-consuming fire. The air in front of them trembled in waves, and he could almost feel the heat scorching at his elbows.

"Step away from the star, stupid boy, and perhaps Auntie Bella will spare you from being burnt to a crisp, hm?" Her voice was but a sibilant hiss.

"She's a Lilim, a _witch_!" a very upset Draco hissed in his ear, the blood draining from his face. "You can't fight against magic, Harry."

"That's right, listen to the fair one, ickle _Harry,_ " the witch interjected gleefully, spitting out her words like they were poison. Harry felt sick upon hearing his name ooze from her lips. She cackled at his discomfort. " _You can't fight against magic!_ _Ha ha_! You can't fight against _Auntie Bellatrix_!"

Harry felt the embers of determined ire stirring within his veins at her hungry expression. He could feel Draco unrelentingly quivering, pressed between his back and the wall, and felt a most impertinent, puzzling emotion well up in his chest.

It almost felt like courage.

"You aren't taking another step near him."

"Pity. The shining golden heart of a star at peace is so much better than your frightened little heart," Bellatrix cocked her head, licked her lips. A painstakingly slow smile leached across her face as she pulled the cleaver from behind her back and twirled it among her fingertips. "But, even so, better than no heart at all."

As she advanced, wielding both her wand and her dagger, Harry felt his mind whirring into panic mode. Everything was too _hot;_ the room was blurring around him. The heat was too much; the flames were eating them alive; they were all going to die; Bellatrix was going to rip them both to shreds in seconds; _they were going to die._..

His hand brushed back against his belt, and he suddenly remembered.

With one hand, Harry fumbled for the small bag hanging innocuously from his belt, and felt his fingers clasp around a handful of grit. Above the roaring of the malignant green Fiendfyre, he turned to Draco, wrapped an unoccupied arm around his waist, and shouted, " _Draco! Hold on tight and think of home_!"

All he could feel were Draco's arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders, clinging to him like a terrified lifeline, and the heat of Bellatrix's glare, and the incensed spark of victory burning within him. The flames lit up his eyes as he triumphantly raised his arm over the spreading fire for the witch to see. Upon notice, her face contorted once more into a purely horrifying rage, and she screeched, rushing at them as Harry hurled down a handful of Floo powder straight into the Fiendfyre.

The last thing he saw and heard before the world turned into a myriad of twisted color was the blade plunging down upon him and Bellatrix's frenzied scream of fury.

* * *

As the world collapsed and remade itself around him, Harry held onto Draco like an anchor. When he came to awareness, he was standing, and he was whole, unscathed.

The first thing he felt was the thrill of relief, of being alive and whole and not burnt into ash.

The second thing he felt was the rain. Too much rain. It felt like he was being battered with thousands of icy shards, all pummeling him with heavy fists.

Harry opened his eyes.

They were no longer standing on solid ground. Agitatedly he surveyed their surroundings, only to find that they were standing in a cluster of white mist. Then his mind cleared, and he wiped the rain from his eyes. The wind plunged and slipped about them like wolves, howling and buffeting them about like specks in the air. In the distance, far below, he could make out the glittering city lights and the towers of Grimmauld.

They were standing on a _cloud_.

It seemed Draco had come to the very same realization, for instantly the two sprang apart, shoving at each other, as if burned by hot irons. The star seemed equal parts confounded and dismayed as he stumbled to stay straight.

" _What the hell did you do?_ " Harry hollered, fists clenched.

Draco looked at him as if he had sprouted a second head.

" _Excuse me_? What did _I_ do?" he spluttered, not backing down, and shouted back at him with the same ferocity. "What the hell did _you_ do? ' _Think of home?_ ' Is that your idea of a grand escape plan? It sure worked well, didn't it? ' _Think of home._ ' How bloody thick are you?"

"If it weren't for me, you'd be skewered on that crazy psycho's knife, so _excuse you!_ "

"What kind of plan even was that? ' _Think of home_?' You thought of your own damn home and I thought of mine, and now look what you've done! Now we're halfway between the two!"

Harry threw his hands up in frustration, and pushed at Draco spitefully. "You dumb git! What were you thinking of _your_ home for? I meant _mine!_ You know, with our _deal,_ you shifty, lying cheat?"

"If you wanted me to think of _your_ home, you should have said something!" Draco protested, prodding an index at his chest.

Harry made a face and angrily batted his arm aside, too pent up to think carefully. "Oh, I'm sorry!" He feigned cheer, wobbling about in his frenzy. It turns out that clouds do not provide very stable footing, so you had to shift about a lot lest you fell through the mist and lost more than just your wits. "Some crazy lady was going to cut your heart out and _eat it,_ and you wanted more specific instructions? For some stupid celestial being, your brain is nothing but a bag of rocks, isn't it? Maybe next time you'd like me to hand-write a manual for you, then?"

Draco was shaking his head. "You know," he glared, "you're a _real_ ―"

Before he could finish whatever cutting remark he was crafting, there came a hiss in the air above them, and something lashed past, too quick to tell, and suddenly tough ropes of coir descended upon them, whipping across their arms and legs and faces and ensnaring the two in a wide throwing net. In spite of their startled cries and grappling protests, their efforts were in vain, for something so strong it knocked the wind out of them jerked at the net, and they were hauled downwards, falling through the cloud, tumbling through the rain-scattered air ―

They landed on a hard, slick surface with a hefty _thump,_ collapsing into a heap, tangling in the net, and the breath was once more stolen from their lungs.

Blinded by the rainwater dripping into his eyes, Harry swiped the back of his hand across his eyes and squinted up. Dark-coated figures shuffled about them, their silhouettes dancing in the wind-decked clouds. Beside him, Draco pushed himself off the rain-slicked wooden boards so he was sitting up, and lifted a hand to push away some of the net.

They were on a _flying ship._ Crew members bustled about, and the sails fluttered madly along the masts, beating with emphatic drumming sounds. From both sides of the ship, like a pair of majestic wings, spread a network of long thin copper wires, each splayed out like the curve of a bird wing, crossed over and connected with one another to form appendages of metal coil. They were currently soaring through the clouds with such ease that one could easily think they were instead being battered about by the frantic waves of the ocean.

Once his vision cleared, Harry could make out a ring of strangers crowding in on them, forming a tightly-knit circle around them so they had nowhere to run. From between the holes in the net, he could see the people surrounding them clad in bulky ebon slickers, with boxy black goggles plastered over their eyes, their faces straggly and gruff, scowling at them. Draco sharply sucked in a breath as one leaned in close to scrutinize the two, pulling the goggles off, his damp hair streaking over his forehead.

Although the overcoat shielded most of his features, Harry could make out the surly, formidable features of a tall man with imposing ebony locks that peeked out through his hood and a staunch beard that gave his chiseled features a rugged, weathered look. The man's brows were silently scrunched together in a scowl as he glowered at them from under the coat. Harry felt a lump rise in his throat.

"Oy, Cap'n!" one of the man's lackeys jeered, his voice scratchy and grating on the ears. "Looks 's though we've caught ourselves a little bonus!"

Another joined in, his voice rough like sandpaper. "Couple of aurors?"

"Storm brood?"

"They from the Ministry, y'think?"

"They looks like a couple of filthy Night Prowlers!"

As soon as the heated discussion began, it broke apart into hushed whispers and conspiratorial muttering, for the man had taken a step closer and towered over them, and held up a hand to staunch unnecessary disruptions. Harry and Draco nervously shuffled backwards. There reigned silence on board for a moment as he considered the two captives. His eyes, grey as the stormy sky, pierced through them, and Harry felt mildly uncomfortable as he squirmed under the captain's critical gaze. He spoke.

"They don't look like anything of the sort to me," the captain commented lightly, but his voice was a smooth baritone, his accent cut from rust, his features chilling to the bone in the raging of the storm.

The man next to him ripped off his goggles to give the odd pair a closer look. "Why else would anybody be up here in the middle of a storm?" he declared with preposterous hauteur. The captain's deliberate head turn and icy, deadpan gaze could have cut through the man like a polished knife through hot butter. He rolled his eyes up to the heavens.

" _Why else would anybody be up here in the middle of a storm_?" Both brows rose into his hairline as he pretended to ponder over this. By now, everybody's attention had strayed to the captain ripping into his mate. "Well, let's think, shall we? Perhaps for the _same goddamned reason we are_!"

The crowd of onlookers tittered anxiously. The captain's attention returned to the two new arrivals.

"Now tell me," his voice pitched deeper. "Who are you?"

Both Harry and Draco were at a loss for words, too flabbergasted with the happenings that all they could do was helplessly exchange a distressed look with one another under the net. The captain grew impatient as they flailed, and waved them off.

"Nothing, hmm?" He raised a disappointed brow, and turned to the rest of his crew, raising his voice. "See if a stay in our beloved brig will get 'em to crack."

The expectant crew cheered, bloodthirstily, with snarls and sneers on their faces. It was a night of unfriendly persons, and Harry hoped it would be over and he would wake up and realize this was only a horrible nightmare.

" _Put 'em in the brig_!" roared the captain, and the crew members scattered. A few figures clad in black advanced on Harry and Draco, where they lay in an ungraceful heap on the floor, and began heaving the throwing nets off of them.

"You heard the man!" yelled one of the crew members. "Get a move on!"

Once the nets were off them, they were free. They shook their heads to rid themselves of the rainwater that had now drenched them to the bone once more, liberated from the nets, but not for long: as soon as the wires came free the masked men grabbed at them, hauling them up by their arms. Draco yelped, fighting for his breath when brawny hands wrapped around his shoulders like steel clamps, like he was but a twig, and dragged him up and away, feet sliding uselessly against the rain-stained deck as he tried to dig his heels in.

"Let go of me!" he thrashed about uselessly, shaking his head and kicking at his warden's shins, but the man only chuckled at his antics, like he was a puppy begging for attention. It infuriated him to no end, how he was continuously being treated as though he were just some amusing plaything to chuck aside at first notice.

Harry was also trying to shake off the shipmate's grip in an attempt to salvage some of his dignity, but to little avail. "You know," he muttered, "contrary to what you might think, I _can_ actually walk on my own."

"Get them in the brig," the captain ordered, and strode off disdainfully, not bothering to spare them a second glance, "and then the rest of you filthy mongrels, _back to work_! We still have lightning to catch!"

Harry briefly wondered what exactly the captain meant as the men lugged the two over to a locked door with naught but a keyhole and shoved them inside. The interior of the cabin was home to sacks of grains and chests of canned goods and miscellaneous equipment ― it was more a storage unit than anything else, something small and cramped, with but a single dusty bulb hanging precariously from a wire attached to the ceiling boards. He and Draco were roughly crammed in, back to back, coarsely bound together, and then they were left alone, together for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, when in reality it had only been half a day since they had last seen each other.

They sat in a brooding, uncomfortable silence, allowing the tenseness in the air to settle over them, smothering like a wool blanket in the summer heat. Behind them, they could hear the _snick_ of the key turning in the keyhole, locking them inside.

At last, they were alone.

* * *

"They're going to kill us, aren't they?"

Harry had been preoccupied, wriggling a trapped wrist about, trying to loosen the rope; when Draco finally spoke, his voice was so small that Harry had to strain to hear him. Strangely, he felt the compulsion to turn around and wrap his arms around the star, for his voice was so forlorn that he felt a tugging sensation in his chest, one that was very unusual indeed. Instead, he settled for staring morosely at the ground.

"I don't know."

When Draco continued, it seemed as though the room had disappeared, that everything had disappeared, and all Harry knew was the soft, wistful sound of his voice. "You know, it's funny. I used to watch people down here having adventures, finding themselves. I envied them for it. I knew it was silly of me; I was a star, and I was lucky not to be born in a world of pestilence and sin, and I was lucky to be an otherworldly being... but I still dreamed of, wished for what Earthlings had. But now that I'm here, I―I don't know."

A crooked smirk made its way onto Harry's face. He turned his head slightly, the farthest he could turn without spraining anything. "Ever heard the adage ' _be_ _careful what you wish for?_ '"

Draco stiffened and pressed his lips together, eyes narrowing. "What, so getting my heart cut out―that'll serve me right, won't it?"

"What? No, no, that's―" Harry sighed. "I didn't mean it like that. Look, I admire your dreaming." He gazed up at the ceiling, and let out a long breath. "Shop boy like me, I couldn't have even _imagined_ an adventure this big in order to have wished for it. I just thought I'd find some lump of a dusty grey rock and take it back home, and then that'd be that."

"And instead you got me," Draco supplemented, and made a sound vaguely reminiscent of a wry laugh, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Without warning, he began giggling quietly, and, as his mind whirred, Harry couldn't help but shake his head and join in. They laughed over how utterly foolish they had been in the past few days and were bound to be in the next few, traipsing about unfamiliar terrain with no hint of an idea of what they were doing at all, arguing and railing at one another over the tiniest things. They laughed over everything that had transpired so far.

Once the laughter died down, silence reigned once more. Both were only left with sighs welling up in their chests. As Harry ruefully grinned at his own expense, Draco piped up: "You know, if there's one thing I've gathered in all my years of watching Earth, it's that sometimes people aren't all they make themselves out to be." He paused mid-sentence, thought for a moment, and sighed. "There are shop boys, but then there are also boys who just happen to be working in shops for the time being."

The star turned his head. Harry slid him a bemused look.

"And trust me, Harry, you are no shop boy."

"Tell that to everybody else in the world," Harry mumbled self-deprecatingly, but Draco only shook his head.

"I never thanked you for saving my life," he murmured, breath ghosting across Harry's hair, eyes half-lidded. "That was wrong of me. I'm sorry. I owe you my life, Harry Potter."

"I promised to keep you safe," was the response. "I intend to keep that vow to the best of my ability."

"You saved me. You save me," Draco muttered under his breath, trailing off. Closing his eyes, he leaned back so his fair hair flopped backwards, lids fluttering shut. Harry felt a pleasant buzz fill his stomach.

Unconsciously, as they spoke, they leaned back against one another, gazing at the walls listlessly. Their fingertips touched ever so briefly, and his hand tingled with the touch, when suddenly it seemed as if the both of them had snapped out of a trance, and jumped, withdrawing their hands as soon as they made contact.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Harry gulped down a breath, and steadied his breathing.

Draco blushed, unseen, but could not help the small, blissful smile that spread across his face.

"N-No, not at all."

And there they were, two people from two different worlds on a vessel drifting through star-struck heavens, reveling with stubborn silence in each other's company.

* * *

 **FN :** that's all for this chapter! More to come in the next. Please remember to comment and tell me what you think! This story thrives on constructive feedback, remember.


	6. behind, a dream

**Disclaimer :** I do not own any aspects of Neil Gaiman's _Stardust_ franchise or J.K. Rowling's _Harry Potter_ franchise.  
 **AN :** hi all! So this chapter was hard to write, because nothing really lives up to that gorgeous montage in the movie, but... I tried.  
 **Warnings/Other :** bad language (my apologies), darker themes, possibly graphic content. This chapter title was taken from Shakespeare's "Sonnet 129."

* * *

 **Your Heart in Exchange for Mine**

 **by nightofowls**

Every star was once darker than the night,  
before it awoke.

― Dejan Stojanovic, _The Sign and Its Children_

* * *

 _part six: behind, a dream_

* * *

Fenrir Greyback was enjoying himself immensely.

"Well, well, well, boys! Scarper over an' look at this sad sack, would you?"

His companions dutifully crowded over, and found themselves gazing curiously at a bloated dead man in a rusty bathtub, his front stained red with dried, flaking blood. His varicose veins bulged grotesquely from the corners of his eyes, which were still open and unseeing, rolled up towards the heavens. The stale smell of sanguinated bathwater filled Greyback's senses, and he felt a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

"What's a fancy old bloke like him doin' over 'ere?" One Snatcher named Scabior picked at his crooked yellow teeth. The others muttered among themselves.

Greyback held up a gnarled hand, and the chatter died. His senses clouded with smells and thoughts, and suddenly there came an onslaught of scents and scenes, and he felt himself sinking into a saporific daze. He closed his eyes once, before opening them again. When his lids peeled back his eyes were a vibrant, blinding white. Then he saw it.

He could see the images carved out in white mist: the boy in the rain with his Thestral, the witch who tried to trick him, the intruders who pried him from her grasp. He felt the splattering of tell-tale raindrops beating down on his back, and the swift brush of a silken robe flutter by his arm. He saw a locket, gleaming jade and gold, swing from the boy's neck.

He could smell everything. He could _see_ everything.

He saw the man, felled by a knife to the neck, choking on his own blood. He saw the fires swallow up the inn, saw the boy with the locket and a stranger ― another newcomer, one with a most phantasmagoric aura drifting indolently about him, whatever that meant ― being spirited away in a cloud of powder, saw the witch scream in insatiable fury and destroy her cleaver in a rage, saw the inn crumple into corrugated tin and wood like a rag doll, saw the witch's trap turn to dust before her. He saw her age in seconds, the wrinkles multiplying and carving grotesque lines down her cheeks, around her temple.

He saw the star with the locket around his neck, and the other boy with the magic shimmering about his form, transported safely into the sky. And then they were gone.

Greyback's senses exploded, and he returned to the land of the living.

The star had disappeared, but that didn't mean it wouldn't return to land. In fact, Greyback had a gut feeling that he knew exactly where the star was going to land next.

"Boys," he grinned, an unspoken snarl on his lips, "it seems we were but a step behind."

One member of his pack grimaced. "What do you mean?"

Greyback cracked his knuckles menacingly, feeling his heartbeat quicken and his blood run hot from the impending chase.

"Looks to me like Stubby Boardman got to 'em first. But I know exactly where we need to go next, and it's real close by."

* * *

A black, riderless carriage sped along the dirt trails of the Grimmauldian plains, unheeded by all, noticed by none.

There was not a soul in sight who could have noticed the suspicious image of the dark silhouette streaming across the grasslands, looking very much like a harbinger of evil, and, had there been any, he or she would have noticed the single gloomy face peeking out through the window on the inside.

Bellatrix glared out of the window, her expression gelid enough to crack ice. Morosely, she inspected her reflection in the window: a wrinkled, anile face stared accusingly back at her, as if blaming her for the current situation.

She growled, low in her throat. Her cheeks were now sunken in, her eyes protruding outwards, weighing down upon her saggy lower lids. Her eyebrows and eyelashes had begun to flake off, and there was flab about her arms and neck and abdomen where there hadn't been before. Heavy wrinkles were etched across her face, wearing and grey, and her hair was stringy (and more string than hair, by this point). The witch dragged a hand across her face in infuriated despair, and clutched at her hair.

When she pulled her hand away, off came a gargantuan clump of what once were her thick and luscious tresses. Now they just looked like long, grey rat fur. Agape, she screeched and threw the clump of hair aside, batting it from her fingertips, and frantically looked back at her reflection in the window. Her head was balding, and fast.

Bitterly, Bellatrix pulled the quartz dagger from her dress and whispered a few impatient sibilant words. The quartz surface simmered, and was replaced by the image of her disapproving sisters, both of whom were eyeing her most disdainfully. She hated them with a passion in that moment.

"What is it now, sister?" Narcissa rolled her eyes, hands on her hips.

Andromeda frowned. "Look what she's done, Cissy," she remarked, wrinkling her nose further so that her face resembled that of a prune. Her next remark she directed at Bellatrix. "You've gone and wasted your magic, and for naught!"

Bellatrix cursed under her breath. "Spare me your caviling," she groaned. "Ask for the star's location. Do it."

"We have," Narcissa raised a thinning, almost nonexistent brow. "You asked us to not a few hours ago."

"Ask again!"

"We _have_ asked again!" Andromeda protested with a hiss. "The answer is still the same: the star is airborne!"

"Well, he can't remain so forever, can he?" Bellatrix snapped back. "Inform me as soon as he touches ground― _immediately_! Do you understand?"

"Watch your tongue, sister," Narcissa glanced at her nails with pursed lips. "Remember, it is you and not we who have lost the star."

"Lost him _and_ broken the knife!" Andromeda interjected hotly. "Even if you do apprehend him, how will you complete the deed, hm?"

Narcissa, cool as ever, raised her chin. "Perhaps you should return and send one of us in your place."

"Don't be absurd," Bellatrix glowered. "I'll bring him home and deal with him then. Make sure everything is ready for our arrival."

* * *

Harry came to with a crick in his neck and limbs that were stiff from remaining immobile for too long. A groan rumbled in his throat as he blearily blinked, and he found himself staring up at the ceiling.

Then it came back to him. The Beauxbatons veela court, the trudge through the endless woods, getting lost, finding out Draco had disappeared, Councilor Pettigrew ― that sad old man and his untimely demise― and the _witch,_ and then _sky pirates_ ―

He shivered with realization as he remembered where he was.

He had dozed off earlier, his head leaning back against Draco's shoulder, and now as he awoke he could feel Draco's tender breaths tickle at his temple, could feel the star's soft hair getting in his eyes.

"You're awake," Draco said wearily, but offered him a small smile. He looked as though he hadn't slept a wink, with his hair mussed and eyes half-lidded, but surprisingly the sight was more endearing than not.

"Haven't you slept at all?" Harry realized the slip-up as soon as he heard it. "Right, right. Sorry. I'm not really in the right state of mind to be saying things right now. Are you alright?"

Draco only nodded.

Outside, there no longer came the wayworn battering of the rain against the roof, and the shouts of the pirates above the deck had long since died out. He had the notion that had they any windows, there would have been sunlight spilling across their faces, harkening the morning come.

After a while, to pass the time, Draco finally spoke again, something heavy in his voice.

"Tell me about Cho, then."

Harry's face fell, smile dropping.

 _That's right. Cho._

"Well, she―she―"

He found himself struggling to find the right words, gaze darting about, frowning. He found that he had no idea what he wanted to say. Harry wracked his brain and tried to picture Cho standing in front of him, reaching a hand out to caress his cheek, then laughing, and turning away, and disappearing into mist, but he found he could say nothing. As much as he tried to conjure up an image, all he could think of was how warm Draco's laugh was, even in the gloom of the cellar, how perfect his hand felt interwoven with his during that one brief moment they had touched, how smooth and soft his hair was.

"There's n―there's nothing more to tell you," he finished lamely while Draco expectantly stared up at the dingy ceiling. "Why are you asking? I told you everything there is to tell, didn't I?"

"No need to get defensive," Draco murmured. "It's just, what little I know about love is that it's unconditional. It isn't something you can _buy_."

Harry bristled, protesting. "Hang on. This wasn't about me _buying_ her love! This was a way for me to prove to her how I felt!"

"Ah! I see," Draco made a sound vaguely reminiscent of an enlightened gasp, and thoughtfully pursed his lips. He emphatically shook his hair out of his face and turned as far as he could to look at Harry. "And what's _she_ doing to prove how she feels about you?"

"Well―" Harry spluttered, and then abruptly closed his mouth, for he had no idea how to respond. It wasn't too long before he felt a wry smirk creeping upon his face. Behind him, Draco hid a self-satisfied smile. Everything about their situation was completely absurd. "Look, Draco, you'll understand when you meet her, alright? Provided we don't get murdered by flying pirates first."

"Murdered by pirates; heart torn out and eaten; meet Cho." Draco perused his options, wrinkling his nose in distaste. He had heard quite enough about her from Harry's love-struck blubbering for the past few days, but he honestly couldn't see the allure. "I can't decide which sounds more fun."

"Don't be like that," Harry chastised, elbowing him gently, but there was a hint of agitation in his tone.

"Look, I don't mean to impede," Draco started, "but from what I've heard, Cho doesn't seem to be doing much to show _you_ how much she loves you. It's just―it makes you wonder if she's really as great as you say she is."

Harry recoiled. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing, really! But you're expending so much effort to impress her, and she isn't doing anything in return for you. Is it really worth it, trying to buy her affections?"

"I hope you're not saying what I think you're saying." Harry's voice had dropped two notches, his tone dark and foreboding. There was a frore anger stirring in the undercurrents of his voice as he pulled away from Draco and sat up straighter, ignoring the blast of cold wind and chills that came once they separated. "You're just jealous that the two of us have something that you aren't able to have."

Draco drew back, furthering the scant distance between them. The conversation had taken a turn for the worst.

"That's―"

"Let's not."

Harry's tone was frigid. Deep down, he felt an unspeakable emotion boiling within him, and did his best to tamp down its manifestation. Furrowing his brow, stung, Draco sucked in a breath and stared at his feet.

Draco's shocked silence was reminder enough that he had perhaps taken a step too far. The star hadn't meant to _hurt_ him ― he was just asking Harry to think it over ― and now he had gone and made things so much more stilted.

Harry felt remorse curling within his chest upon rethinking what he had said: it had been completely uncalled for to bite back like that, hadn't it? _Had it?_

The tenseness was back with a vengeance, and the heavy atmosphere in the stuffy room was now unbearable. Harry felt compelled to apologize, and was just about to open his mouth when the brig door burst open, and the captain strode in, his figure looming over the two where they sat on the floor, tied together. He slammed the door, and Harry felt Draco flinch as it banged shut against the frame, enclosing them in the shadows once more.

The man began sauntering in slow circles around them, his tall frame towering over the two.

"This is the part where you introduce yourselves and tell me why you're here," he rumbled after a pause, eyes glinting fiercely in the dimness of the room. "And why you thought it fit to intrude on my ship."

Draco shuddered as the man came to a stop in front of him, but did refused tear his gaze away, fixing the man with his steely silver glare. Harry resisted the sudden urge to shield the blonde from the captain's piercing gaze as the man chuckled at the star's gall.

"How about I start?" the captain finally proposed, as if they had all the time in the world. "My name is Sirius Black, known to many as Captain Stubby Boardman, and you're aboard the Free Ship _The Grim_. I've offered you the liberty of knowing my name, because, after all, you'll be taking it with you to the grave if you don't answer my questions."

The captain leaned in close, eyes widening menacingly under his dark brows. "Now, tell me who you are and why you're here," he spelled out, enunciating each word with a rumbling hiss, "or I snap Blondie's pretty fingers one by one like dry twigs."

Harry could hear the muffled sounds of the other crew members clamoring and pressing their ears up against the door, and swallowed back a nervous breath.

"My name is Harry Potter," he mumbled, and then cleared his throat. "And this is... m-my boyfriend, Draco―"

"Boyfriend? Inconceivable," scoffed the captain. There came titters behind the door, and both Harry and Draco flinched as he circled around them, and exclaimed, his voice booming louder by the minute, "Far too young and radiant to belong to just _one_ man! We share and share alike aboard _my_ vessel, sonny! Isn't that right, lads?"

From behind the door there came a raucous cheer, and Captain Stubby Boardman bellowed a laugh that had the floorboards reverberating. Harry felt his blood run cold at the insinuation as Draco stiffened behind him. Rage festered in his veins.

He clenched his jaw, locking eyes with the captain, and grated out (much to the older man's amusement), "If you dare even lay a finger on him..."

The captain held up a hand to silence him, and tutted. He turned to Harry and paced over so he loomed over him.

"Quiet. Your lover can fend for himself. Now, I understand that you're trying to show a little spirit in front of your sweetheart," the man said, and crouched down so he and Harry were eye level. His frigid gaze was even scarier up close. "But if you talk back to me again, I'll feed your tongue to the dogs, you impertinent little scoundrel!"

Harry jumped, and blinked a few times to steady himself. Then, shakily: "Sir?"

The captain considered this. "Better, but still interrupting. Let me see. A hanging's always good for morale―" He paused briefly, and as if on cue there came a resounding catcall from behind the door. Once again, he began pacing, boots smacking heavily against the floorboards. "―Or we could send you swinging from the gallows with a merry jig; that'd be a sight worth seeing―" Another cheer.

Captain Stubby Boardman fisted a handful of Harry's shirt and pulled him forward. "―Or maybe I'll just tip you off the side and be done with it, hm? It's a long way down. Gives you plenty of time to think about your pretty paramour before your head gets smashed in and you turn to nothing but a pile of bloody mush."

Draco's face drained of color. Harry opened his mouth, allowing the words to spill out before he could attach any coherent thought to them.

"Please, _sir_ , look―we're just trying to make our way home, back to a place called Little Whinging, where I come from," he babbled, and then paled when a shadow passed over the captain's face and he cast his stormy eyes upon him.

" _What did you say_?" The grip on his shirt tightened. The captain's face twisted in rage, and Harry reared backwards, knocking against a tensed Draco.

"Um... Little Whinging... sir..." he trailed off, terrified to the core. Before he could react, the captain whipped a knife out from nowhere and pressed it hard against Harry's jugular.

" _Say that one more time, boy. I dare you._ "

"Sir, _please_ ―I-I'm telling the truth!" Harry said beseechingly, blood pulsing wildly.

The captain only pressed down harder, eyes ablaze. "That's one lie too many, boy."

Outside, the crew members were abuzz with anticipation, jostling to and fro in an attempt to get the chance to press his or her ear against the door.

"Wall?" hissed a member with sandy hair and a thick Irish accent. "What's 'e mean?"

"Shut up!"

"What are they saying?" pressed another shipmate named Lee Jordan, one with dreadlocks and a scarf bundled about his head. "Can you hear them?"

From inside, the captain's voice echoed out. "Thought you could wander in over on my patch of the woods and leave with your head intact, did you?"

"Oh, he is."

"Yeah, he's gonna―"

" _And live to tell the tale?_ "

As soon as they heard the phrase, the other members stiffened, eyes widening, and began animatedly shoving at one another, scrambling to get away from the brig and back up on deck. "He's gonna throw 'im overboard!"

"All right, go, on the deck!" One of them whispered harshly, and they all joggled one another in their haste to reach the edge of the ship in time to see the oncoming spectacle.

"Now, go go go!"

"On the deck, on the deck!"

Frenetically, the crew members scaled the laddered steps, knowing where to step even in the dark, and burst up onto the deck, slamming open the doors and scurrying to the railing. The crew members tripped over and crashed into one another as they made for the landing. As they made their escape, they could still hear Captain Stubby Boardman's resounding threats filter through the gaps in the floorboards.

"That's a big mistake!" roared the captain. "The last one you'll ever make!"

Eagerly, they all peered over the side of the ship, leaning against the railing just in time to see the captain fling someone with dark, shaggy hair and glasses out of a window below deck, and were all greeted with the sight of passing clouds and pastel yellow corn fields spread about beneath them like shimmering golden blankets, and said figure plunging headfirst towards the unforgiving ground thousands of feet below.

The captain, who had propped himself up on his elbows against the sill, watching the descent satisfactorily, whipped his head up to look at the inquisitive crew members. As soon as they saw the sharp glare headed their way, everybody reeled back and returned to their duties. The captain shut the window with a _thump_.

The peace on board was broken not a moment later when there came a litany of yells from below deck. Nosily, the crew members gathered around the entrance to the staircase. The cries grew louder, accompanied by the thudding of heavy boots against the stairs, and the captain emerged, dragging a struggling Draco after him.

"No! No, you _brute_! Let go of me!" he thrashed about under the man's grip, shouting empty threats and insults, as the rest of the pirates looked on, exchanging looks among themselves.

"Feisty little thing, aren't you?" muttered the very chagrined captain, raising his brows and tugging the star along. "Come along now, get up, you brat."

Draco remained unrelenting, and continued flailing, almost tripping over himself as he thrashed about. "No! You _monster_! You _pig_! You cold-blooded murderer! How _dare_ you! Don't you even _think_ about― _ah_!"

Fed up, the captain sucked in a displeased breath, picked Draco up like he weighed nothing more than a sprig of grapes, and tossed him over one shoulder.

"Put me down, you heathen!" Draco frantically beat his fists against the captain's back, but his kicking protests were paid no mind.

Captain Stubby Boardman strode over to his cabin, and paused in front of the door. "I'm taking this one to the cabins. Anyone who disturbs me in the next few hours," he promised threateningly over the sound of Draco's quibbling, "will receive the same treatment."

Some of the crew members looked mildly uncomfortable at this.

"What, you'll...?" ventured the sandy-haired one, wincing and making a face and then trailing off.

"No, you idiot, Finnigan," the captain deadpanned, twisting the doorknob and stepping over the threshold. "I'll toss your lumpy arse overboard as well! Now get back to work!"

Finnigan looked rightfully disconcerted.

"R-Right."

The door closed with a _snick_ , shutting off the sound of Draco's insults and leaving silence atop the deck. Barely a murmur rippled through the crew. Finnigan stepped forward and blocked the doorway to the captain's lodgings, the epitome of nonchalance.

"Captain's busy," he raised his brows meaningfully, hands motioning for the onlookers to shoo. The crowd grudgingly dissipated. "So should you be!"

* * *

"We've located the sky vessel."

"About bloody time!" Bellatrix threw up her hands in frustration.

"Patience, sister!" snapped Narcissa.

Andromeda blithely went on, ignoring the charade and dutifully citing her findings. "It's headed south for the port town near Hogsmeade, and you are no longer the only one seeking the star! There's someone following your tracks!"

Bellatrix peered through the quartz at them, her gaze urgent and unseeing, like looking for a shadow in rippling water. "A witch? A warlock?"

"Hunters of the night, and they are gaining, fast. You must proceed with haste, sister!"

The witch flung aside the dagger, brushing off the acerbic words the way one brushes gnats off ripening fruit, and pointed a finger forward, through the open screen of the carriage. The whip lying idle on the driver's seat righted itself and jauntily snapped forward, tickling the horses' hinds and urging them on.

In the distance, she thought she could hear the wailing howls of wolves.

* * *

"Get in there, boy!"

The captain gruffly shoved Draco through the narrow hallway and into the cabin, and then whipped around and shut the doors securely, making sure the locks atop the frame were all bolted. Then he turned, and smiled, the expression lighting up his face with a mirthful youthfulness that had been undetectable earlier, and that revealed him to be really quite handsome.

"I thought that went quite well. How about you?"

Standing by the window with a panoramic view of the sprawling vernal landscape below, with its ribbon-like waterfalls and its samite waters, dressed in naught but his undergarments, was Harry, unharmed (if not slightly ruffled) and holding a porcelain saucer of tea. The boy turned upon hearing their entrance, and grinned. The upturn of his brow was the only betrayal of his incredulity at the farce. Draco seemed to share the same sentiment.

"Alright," Sirius Black rubbed his hands together and reached out to pull at Draco's wrist. Excitedly he guided the star over to the table of a rich cherry, upon which sprawled decrepit scrolls and ink cartridges and quills stained royal blue with scrawling color. Ever the gentleman, he dragged out a plush chair and beckoned for the blonde to sit. "Now that we're all settled, tell me all about my beloved England. I want to hear absolutely _everything_."

Captain Stubby Boardman ― known more fondly as Captain Sirius Black by his crew and his loved ones ― was a paradox. The fearsome sky pirate Captain Stubby Boardman did not exist, but Sirius Black did. He was an honorable man who had been wronged by the world many times over but had never turned jaded because of it, but he was also one who hid his true self behind a mask of lies, a veneer of power. He had, in the secrecy of the brig, disguised a mannequin in Harry's clothes and tipped it overboard, allowing the boy to steal into his cabin after him under his Invisibility Cloak.

"Hang on―how on Earth did you manage to pull that off?" was all Harry could think to blurt out, as he edged his way over and took a seat across from the captain. "I can't believe your crew fell for that act."

"And where could you _possibly_ have found a mannequin?" goggled Draco, who was warming his hands about a frothing teacup, letting the steam curl over his fingertips. Neither of them could stifle their smiles. The captain looked suitably pleased with himself.

"Ah, works every time," the man held up an index, knowingly, eyes twinkling with a wisdom beyond his years. "Allow me to divulge Sirius Black's very own recipe for success: a dash of trickery, a pinch of bargaining, and another ounce of intimidation, and _voila_! The end result? A towering reputation, with not a single drop of blood spilled. Mind you, I'm not a fan of gratuitous violence."

He leaned back and crossed one ankle over his knee. "That's right, folks. Besides, have you ever tried getting blood out of a leather jacket? Nightmare."

Harry gave up trying to wrap his head around it. "Right," he nodded blandly, and then the spark returned to his eyes as he leaned forward. "So, um, I still don't understand how the crew won't recognize me."

"Harry, m'boy," Captain Sirius Black's brows rose into his hairline, and Harry suddenly felt a little small and out of his element. Draco only looked on, bemused. The man made to get up, and the two younger followed suit. "By the time I'm through with you, not even your sweetheart here would recognize you. Come, you two, we've no time to waste."

(Here, the captain winked jauntily at Draco, who flushed a bright red and turned his face haughtily away.)

They followed the captain over to a pair of screen doors ― "I got these from my travels to the Isles, mind you," the man proudly pointed out as he wrenched a worn bronze candelabra sideways and the frames parted majestically, like rich crimson stage curtains ― where, laden in rows of hangars and shelves, hung outfits and costumes of all shapes and sizes, their colors illuminated on a canvas of silk. Twin mirrors waited patiently at the long end of the aisle. The two new arrivals were entranced by the shades threatening to burst at their seams, coupled with the rows of black leather jackets and shelves-worth of biking helmets, and idly wandered in after the captain, who was purposefully perusing the rows and rows of garments. In the corner proudly stood a sleek black motorcycle, its sides gleaming.

"You've a bike!" Draco exclaimed, running his hand over the refined leather seat. "May I?"

"Oh yes, be my guest," the captain glowed with pride, fondly gazing at the contraption, and chuckled, voice heavy with nostalgia. "Don't tell the others, though. They don't know about my sordid delinquent past. Or about my Animagus form, for that matter."

"Animagus? What's that?" Harry asked, quizzically.

Sirius blinked at him for a moment, and Draco snickered.

"I can transform into a dog."

"That's so cool! Can we see later?"

"Perhaps. But, first and foremost, we have to get you out of those rags. They're dreary," ordered the man, turning to face them with his hands clasped stolidly behind his back, as a colonel does when giving orders. "We have only a few hours until we make port. Until then, you're under orders to clean up, fellows."

"Yes, Captain," Harry hid a smile.

"Bah! We're in private! Call me Sirius."

Harry felt a rush of warmth when the man grinned at him, his smile blinding. "Alright... Sirius."

"Alright, Harry." Sirius clapped his shoulder and edged him towards the mirrors, before rifling through the dozens of hanging clothes. "I'm glad you'll be getting out of those clothes― _very_ small-town errand-boy; tediously parochial, and _definitely_ not for you, young man. You, friend, are destined for greatness."

"This?" He held up a few hangers in front of Harry and narrowed his eyes. "Hmm, yes. I wore this when I was younger, actually; I hate to throw anything away―it's all fine quality material, gone to waste. You know, one minute, you toss something out, and then the next day, it's all the rage again... It's not worth the hassle, if you ask me."

Without another word, ignoring Harry's protests, Sirius tossed the pile of clothes into his arms.

"This?" Harry spluttered. Draco hoisted himself up onto the bike seat and snickered at Harry's bewildered expression.

"I'll have you know, I was voted Best Dressed _and_ Best Hair back at school," Sirius countered indignantly. "Believe me, what I've got trumps those rags you've got on any day. Now shoo."

Then Sirius turned to Draco and gave him a once-over, surveying the racks. With a flourish, he grabbed an elegant top the color of midnight and a pair of _extremely tight_ leather trousers. "Alright, Draco. This'll fit your complexion perfectly―brings out the grey of your eyes."

"Oh, no, that's completely fine," Draco blushed upon seeing the outfit.

Sirius raised an eyebrow. "Really," he smirked, "kiddo, you're wearing a bathrobe."

The star's cheeks flushed a rosy red as he glanced down, only just remembering his getup. Standing and looking highly entertained, Harry hid a snicker as Draco glared at him and demurely set off to hide in the corner.

"No looking," he grumbled softly.

"Who'd want to?" Harry snorted back at him. He swore he did not peek at Draco shrugging into those _heavenly tight_ ― um, those perfectly normal and not-at-all-tight trousers in his peripheral vision, not even once. Nada.

"Now," Sirius dragged Harry over to stand in front of the diptych of mirrors and piled the clothes into the younger's arms. As Harry shrugged off his garments, stained and filthy from his days galumphing through Grimmauldian forestry and starkly stiff from having dried after the rain, the captain took to nudging and prodding at his sleeves. "Now, tell me about England. I want to hear everything."

"You're not from England?" Harry inquired, slipping his head and bare arms through the sleeves of a crisp white dress shirt. From where he leaned against the mirror, arms crossed, the picture of aplomb, the captain heaved a sigh and stood to help him with his cuffs.

"No, no, sadly not." Sirius glanced up, meeting Harry's gaze in the mirror. "But I was always regaled with tall tales of the place, and I lapped the stories up from even my earliest days. People told me they were all poppycock, that they were but embellishments of old wives' tales, but deep down I knew they were true. As a boy, whenever I needed an escape, I'd run away from all the drama to―to peek over the wall, dream of perhaps maybe crossing it one day and seeing England as it was, for myself. Truly terrific, really."

Sirius stopped, and Harry shifted so he could tuck in the shirttails. "Really? So you were―so you were just looking over there? The wall?"

"Oh, yes," sighed the captain, wistfully, a faraway look in his eye. Then he perked up once more, spell broken, and pointed decisively at the twig-ridden bird's nest perched atop Harry's head. "Hair. We need to do something about that."

"Hair?"

"Mhm. Now, Harry, I understand you youth like the messy updo, but it really is an abomination on all mankind and we must get rid of it immediately."

"Duly noted, Sirius."

* * *

Early at dawn, the rickety, flaking red door of a small post office along the alleys of the port town Knockturn swung open, and in swept two figures, dark as midnight, trailed by shadows. Unperturbed, the clerk at the counter did not look up from where he was hunched over, spectacles balanced on the end of his nose, wispy white mustache twitching, as he examined an aged copper Sickle.

"Good morning. How can I help you?"

The two figures wordlessly glided over, looming over the small, creature-like man, who had long, spindly fingers and a nose pointed like a hawk's. As their shadows fell across the counter and obscured his view, he sighed and finally looked up at them.

Griphook was not an impressionable goblin, and that was the only reason why he was not impressed by the sight of Tom Marvolo Riddle and Severus Snape, standing, in all their misty glory, in front of him, cloaks wet from the dew that hung low in the air.

"I need to enter the Gringotts Vaults." Tom's voice was low and deep and full of intentions murkier than a silted riverbed. Along his shoulders slithered a restless Nagini, coiled like a grotesque scarf, her slitted eyes translucent and pallid. Had he felt like assuaging his ethical side so early in the morning, Griphook would have found the sense to refuse such a request.

But Griphook was a goblin, and goblins were not known for their moral standards. They were known for business, and business was what Griphook did, regardless of the customer's identity.

"Have you any identification?" he asked, his voice rough like crunched gravel.

"I'd say I do not need any," Tom said, a warning heavy in his voice, but simpered a laugh anyway. "But, alas, goblins are all known for their honor codes, are they not?"

Griphook did not rise to the bait. Goblins were, after all, sensible creatures, and Riddle spoke no enigmas. He stared the man down through his black beady eyes, and finally Riddle lightheartedly relented and tossed him a parcel packaged in scratchy brown paper.

The goblin pocketed the item without a further glance. "Number?"

"You know which vault number, Mr. Griphook," Riddle grinned, mouth a single bleeding gash across his face. "We do not have time to waste."

"So be it," the goblin grunted, and beckoned for the two to follow him. They rounded the counter and followed him, in silence, through the door marked with a crude "Staff Only" painted in fading white, and down a series of dimly-lit passageways, each narrower than the next. Finally, they emerged through a stone arch, its bricks crumbling, and into a corridor lined with tracks not unlike those of a train station. In front of them sat a solitary cart, rusted from years of wear. Griphook glanced up at Riddle, and extended a hand, gesturing towards the lone barrow.

"Go on. Be my guest."

* * *

"Mind you, I did my best to fit in."

Harry found himself seated on a spool chair, dwarfed in a haircut cape, while Sirius was methodically dragging the brush through Harry's hair, talking lightly to ease the silence. In front of them, Draco sat at the table, daintily nursing a cup of tea and clandestinely hiding his laughter at Harry's plight behind the cup rim, all the while fixing his gaze in rapt attention at the captain as he spoke.

"Tried to make my parents, Orion and Walburga Black, proud. Father was once a buccaneer of sorts too―he was a jack of all trades, and so he expected a lot from me, I suppose, since I was the elder brother."

"You have a brother?" Harry couldn't help but venture, twisting about in his seat, but Sirius nudged him so he was facing forwards once again.

His voice was laced with an indescribable melancholy. "Had," he said gravely, for a minute, and then loosened up once more. "His name was Regulus. We all loved him, but the two of us fought a lot because I was so different from the rest of the family, and he just wanted us all to get along... He ended up getting mixed up with the wrong sort."

"I'm sorry," Draco murmured, placing the teacup down on its saucer. Harry could see the open sadness on his face, in his wide grey eyes.

"No worries," Sirius waved the concern off, plights removed, and made a face. "It was years ago, when I was younger. But it _did_ make me forge a decent reputation of being a cold-blooded killer and a ruthless marauder."

At this, both Harry and Draco smiled.

"But then, my parents both died, and my father always wanted me to take over the family business of doing political work and managing businesses. I never fit in from the start, and I wasn't planning to then. That was Regulus' promise. Instead, I went and continued this line of work, kept the old girl flying for years. Commandeering my own life and ship brought me a freedom I never had when I was confined to the limits of our house, and once I was out of there, I never wanted to return. _The Grim_ has always been the right place for me."

Sirius paused, putting down the brush thoughtfully, and eyed Harry and Draco. "You know," he admitted, grinning, "you have no idea the lightness it brings to my heart being able to confide in you charming youngsters. The pressure it takes to keep up the whole _Captain Stubby Boardman_ , _Captain Sirius Black_ persona for the sake of the people, the crew? Ah, I don't know, sometimes..."

As he spoke, Harry glanced about himself, only to gawk. As Sirius brushed, his hair had become _longer,_ and now flowed over his shoulders in a wild dark mane. He wisely spoke nothing of it.

"You see, I'm very much a man of my own creation. Not particularly with the name, though―I was debating between that and something more poetic like _Captain Shakespeare_ or the like, but the press pinned me as the wily, merciless Captain Stubby Boardman, and who was I to deny the people what they wanted to hear? I suppose the important thing was that I did my business and did it right, that's all. If my enemies saw me as someone formidable, that was fine with me. Little things, you see, lads."

"I don't understand that," Harry spoke after a great deal of thought. From where he sat, he lifted his eyes so his gaze just brushed the tip of Sirius' chin. "Surely it would make you happier to just be yourself? Why fight to be accepted by people you don't actually want to be like?"

Draco hid an eye roll and nodded, feigning sympathy.

"Yeah," he mused aloud, pursing his lips, tone heavy with meaning. "Why would _anybody_ do that to himself?"

When he caught the other boy's eye, he shrugged innocently, smirked, and sipped his tea.

Harry frowned, and looked away, feeling very much the butt of a joke. His voice was quiet with contemplation, the image of Draco's teasing look burning into the backs of his eyelids.

"Exactly."

* * *

If the ride towards the vaults had been a whirlwind, none of the guests gave any indication of it, save for slightly creased, damp clothing.

The cart screeched to a halt, the sound of its braking reverberating through the empty caverns of the underground. Carved into the rock wall was a single arch, a crudely defined platform, and a door of black titanium, its patterns weaving like snakes.

They had arrived at Vault Number 981.

Griphook placed his palm against the door, which had no handles, and the intricate patterns on the door began bending and warping, slithering amongst one another, rearranging. With a solid click and a mighty groan, the door heaved itself open, the lock wheezing. An interminable, hollow darkness sat beyond the door, and greeted them with the sound of nothingness. A stale breeze blew, and Griphook's lantern flickered out, leaving them with nothing but dark.

Pleased, Tom Riddle sauntered in, unwary of the shadows lurking within.

" _Lumos_ ," he hissed, voice sibilant, and a chandelier dangling precariously from the ceiling lit up, casting an eerie yellow glow across the hall. The light caught onto several piles of shelves, each teeming with gold and copper and silver. Behind him, Snape pressed his lips together in a firm line and narrowed his eyes. Across the hall came miscellaneous glimmers as the light spilled unto precious treasures and ancient artifacts.

"Severus," said Riddle, and Snape turned to attention. "Search with me."

He did not need to say what it was he was looking for, for Severus Snape knew, deep down, exactly what it was that a man so evil and greedy as Riddle could possibly want. But, dutifully, the group split up and he searched, strolling through the aisles, surveying his surroundings, wondering how large the underground really was. Griphook stood guard by the door, beady eyes alert, tracking the two men for any signs of theft.

Then, as he turned a corner, he saw it.

A crown. A tiara, placidly lying atop a pile of weathered chests and chairs, gleaming atop a tower of junk.

 _A diadem._

Or, rather, the legendary diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw.

* * *

" _Port ahoy! Ready the lightning barrels_!"

Draco gazed down over the ledge, his hand clutching at the edge of the ship, marveling at the view of Grimmauld, the ribbons of samite rivers and sweeping golden fields, the violet hills rising in the distance. He clasped his hands together, his heart in his throat. He had always wished he could come to Earth, so he could feel the wind whistling across the plains and hear the sound of songbirds serenading each morning, but never in his wildest dreams had he thought it would come true. It was like walking on thin ice and feeling the cracks beneath your feet, but still walking on.

He could feel Sirius walking up behind him, and did not turn his head as the captain approached and placed both hands on the railing. Together, for a moment, they reveled in the silence; in the backdrop, the crew bustled about busily, screaming orders and expletives at one another. In the distance, a jutting crag of rock protruded from the cliffs, resting atop stilts of stone pillars. A settlement of boulders lay atop the arches, its walls high and gray and majestic in the sunlight.

"Hogsmeade, Draco," Sirius leaned over and whispered conspiratorially. "The heart of commerce. Perhaps I'll take you and Harry about once the crew have wandered off. Once we're done, we're going to make a few more stops, if you're alright with that."

"That'd be lovely," Draco turned to the man, a smile illuminating his face.

"Now," Sirius warned, "I can't bring the two of you all the way to the wall ― there's a restriction a few hundred miles around that area lest airships be spotted ― but I'd be happy to take you as far as I can, so don't get so happy so soon."

"I wouldn't dare." Draco grinned all the same, and threw his arms around the captain's middle. "Thank you, Sirius!"

The man patted his head fondly, and then prodded him to look up. "Ah, look, we're here."

 _The Grim_ skimmed the clouds and drifted toward the monticule, gliding atop the breeze. Once it neared, the ship glided to a halt, barely grazing the cliff face nearby, and the rusted steel plank flung open from its latch, landing with a _thump_ on the grass. At once, the crew members yelled in glee and spilled down onto the grass. Sirius kindly offered Draco a hand, and the two traipsed on after the others rambunctiously began heaving black leather barrels and large metal tanks towards town.

Once they had reached the town, they quietened. The group began sneaking glances to and fro, making sure that nobody saw them as they tiptoed across the narrow cobbled streets. After a few turns, the motley crew stole down a darkened alleyway, shadowed by the towering stone buildings and houses, to a single wooden door, the engravings and knots decorating it neat like stitches, tucked deep into a dead end. On the door hung a sign that read "Horace's Office." Seamus beckoned to the others as they crept through, gesturing for them to move faster, and once they were inside, poked his head out to ascertain that no onlookers were milling about in the streets.

They found themselves in a warehouse, crowding along lines of shelves and piles of miscellaneous goods, crowded upon one another haphazardly. There were jars of pickled eyeballs and canteens of a smoky, viscous black liquid, and glasses and trunks of brilliantly-colored furs lay strewn about most carelessly. A portly, balding man waddled out from between the racks, his moss green waistcoat straining at its buttons and his ruffled collar hanging limp from his neck. His greying sideburns and his knob of a nose were both drenched with sweat as he hurried about.

"Ah, Captain, good to see you again," said the man, approaching.

Sirius tipped his hat, and then leaned over to the apprehensive Draco and whispered in his ear, "Horace Slughorn. He's a fence. Thiefspawn."

"'Day. Lightning today," he said succinctly to Slughorn, lowly, and stood to his full height, looking every bit the tall, dark stranger, but Slughorn paid him little to no mind. His eyes roved over Draco, briefly, before his gaze settled on the tank of lightning, and his face lit up.

"Ah, let's see what you've got for me, then." Slughorn rubbed his hands together, anticipatory. His greedy fingers eased the hatch open, and instantly there poured out a streak of lightning, crackling and potent and beautiful. Hastily he reattached the latch, and the lightning was sealed again, but he was not satisfied.

"Well, I'll be honest. Doesn't seem _very_ fresh, does it?"

"Shall I give you a taste then, dear Horace?" Sirius arched a brow, and Finnigan passed him a boarskin cannister. Carefully, he aimed one end at a corner of the ceiling, and Slughorn could only sigh and shake his head disapprovingly.

"No, no―oh, there you go." He observed, sounding resigned.

Sirius popped off the cap with gusto, and suddenly there spilled forth a thick white beam of lightning, splitting the air thunderously as it streaked across the room, coursing across branches, and the ceiling was left charred. Several items were seared and knocked off the shelves, and clattered to the floor.

"Brilliant," Slughorn muttered under his breath. "Like _they're_ cheap."

Expectantly, the captain recapped the cannister. "Seems to me like it's still cracking, very much alive. _Very_ fresh. So, name your price."

"For ten thousand bolts?" Slughorn reiterated contemplatively.

"For ten thousand bolts, grade A, finest quality of lightning you can get your hands on," was the affirmation.

"Yes," the old fence pondered. "But it's difficult to move, isn't it? Hard to store, hard to shift. Lots of trouble. If I get the DMLE sniffing around, what with―eh." He flipped his hands about for emphasis, but raised an eyebrow and thought for a moment. "Ten thousand bolts. Hmm. Best price, one thousand and five hundred galleons."

"Gentleman," Sirius pursed his lips, and stuck out his hand, "kindly return the merchandise on board and prepare to set sail! Horace, always a pleasure."

"Alright, hold on, hold on!" Slughorn waved his hands about, worked up. "Just hold on one moment, would you? Give an old man some time to think, for goodness' sake!"

"Oh, he's―"

"One thousand _six_ hundred, one thousand six hundred!"

"Ah, since I'm feeling particularly generous today, I'll settle for a _very_ _generous_ two thousand galleons."

" _Two thousand_?" Slughorn exclaimed, the picture of incredulity. "Alright, you're having me on, aren't you?"

The fence glanced the other crew members and Draco, all of whom were waiting at the side, watching the debacle unfold, and continued. He gestured to the crate of lightning indignantly.

"You must be joking! Stuffed your brain in there too, have you? Been sailing up where the air's too thin?" Wildly gesticulating, Slughorn pulled his hat off and dabbed at his forehead, exchanging a glance with Draco, who looked mildly concerned for everybody's well-being.

Sirius remained unimpressed. "Had enough laughs yet, old man?" He raised his brows. "That was crude."

"Not anymore," Slughorn put, and then turned serious once more.

"Two thousand."

"Eighteen hundred."

"Two thousand."

"This is not a negotiation!" Slughorn blustered. "Fine, I'll change my number. _Eighteen fifty_."

"Did I hear you say twenty hundred?" Sirius glanced at him through half-lidded eyes.

" _Twenty hundred?_ From you, you did! Yeah," Slughorn swiped a hand in his direction, aggravated. "I said eighteen fifty."

"You said twenty hundred."

"If I did, you're a ventriloquist. Alright, alright! Nineteen hundred, _final offer_." He held out a hand expectantly, as if he knew Sirius would take it regardless.

"Nineteen hundred says the man!" Sirius crowed, and firmly shook Slughorn's outstretched hand. He did not let go, eyes twinkling. "So, with sales tax, let me see―that'll be two thousand Galleons."

At this, Slughorn's smile dimmed instantly. "Brilliant," he muttered as they shook and withdrew. "Put it in the back then. Mad times these are, I say―mad times!"

"These _are_ tough times, Horace," Sirius quipped, just to make him feel better, but Draco got the feeling that he wasn't feeling abashed at all. Slughorn only waved him off dismissively. The others hefted up the crates and began herding them to a back room. "Unbelievable. Well, come on, then."

The captain and the middleman shuffled over to a desk piled with papers and seals and scrolls, and Draco hesitantly followed, only to be met with Slughorn's pointed stare.

"Yes? Can I help you?" the fence urged disapprovingly, very clearly signalling that this was a private conference. Peeved, the star withdrew and instead took to standing alone in the corner, admiring the piles of junk, as the crew bustled about. "Nosy little thing."

Dean Thomas, a tall, handsome shipmate with rich dark skin and a brilliant dimpled smile and an artist's hands, sidled over to keep Draco company.

"Don't worry about 'em," he reassured the star, who returned his words with a small smile. "They're probably not talking about anything special anyway. Slughorn just likes people with a reputation, but the captain's never going to believe in him anyway."

Slughorn tugged at Sirius' sleeve urgently. The two faced the wall to maintain the semblance of confidentiality.

"Have you heard any of those rumors 'round the grapevine about a fallen star? You get your hands on one of those, you could shut up shop! Retire!"

"Fallen star?" The captain hid his pity with feigned curiosity.

Grimmauld was a land of faeries and dragons and chivalry, but it was also a land of shadows and thorns and warlocks of the night. Clans waged war against one another, and mountains fought, and seas raged. Every day, people starved, and conspired, and thieved, and slaughtered.

Without a doubt he knew that nothing so beautiful as a star could survive in a land so thirsty for blood.

After all, how could anybody possibly sanction this? This was another's _life_ they were talking about!

"Yeah," Slughorn nodded fervently. "Those are worth tens or hundreds of thousands if you find the right kind of buyers."

"Right," muttered the captain, who frowned and glanced at Draco through his peripheral vision. As if aware of the newfound attention, the star startled and met his gaze head on, his mercury eyes swirling, and gave him a tense, halfhearted smile.

Sirius _had_ heard about that. In fact, he had heard some of the crew members talking avidly about how a star had recently fallen in Grimmauld, landing with a brilliant shower of starlight.

Then, not a few days later, he picked up two strangers in the sky, both of whom had no reason for being there.

Unless...

Draco turned away, hiding his alarm, arching his neck to look at a few dangling chains of plaid grass baskets and mead bottles suspended from a ladder, and then suddenly Sirius _knew_.

Quickly the man turned back to the conversation, and nonchalantly shook his head.

"Nothing on your travels?" asked Slughorn.

Sirius lied through his teeth. "No."

Nobody noticed Draco letting out a relieved breath.

Slughorn remained blissfully unaware of the eavesdropping. "Really? Not even a sniff of a whisper? Everyone's going on about it down at the market."

"Which market? The one by the wall?"

"That's the one."

"Well," Sirius pitched his voice louder, signaling an imminent end to the conversation. "Horace, you're wasting your time listening to gossip from the ragamuffins and cads trading down there. They're getting into your head, old boy."

"Well," Slughorn said dubiously, "if it―"

Another figure rounded the corner, toddling over, and Sirius tilted his head. "Oh, my word! Speak of the devil!" he exclaimed with fake courtesy as the figure came into the light. Her ragged hair stuck up in frayed strands, and her gait was wobbly and mantis-like. "If it isn't the lovely Petunia!"

"Oh yeah?" the witch snarked back at him most unattractively, placing her hands on her hips. "What were you two nasties saying about me then, hmm?"

Slughorn plastered a smile that very much resembled a grimace onto his face. Sirius did not falter in his showering of praise.

"Oh, what a wonderful, enjoyable woman you are, Petunia. How the world wouldn't be the same place without you, how Earth would stop spinning on its axis if you weren't here, all that."

Petunia directed him an exasperatedly fond gaze, and nodded tiredly. It seemed she was used to hearing this from the dashing captain of _The Grim_.

"You look fabulous, Petunia dear," Slughorn remarked weakly. "You've had your hair done recently, haven't you? Very flattering."

Sirius took this as his opportunity to escape.

"Accentuates your features, dear. But anyway, you two, you both have business to attend to. Petunia, Horace. Good day." He nodded at the both of them, and as they bid him adieu he hurriedly fled. Wrapping an arm around Draco's shoulders and gently nudging him out, the captain barely spared a glance at the pawn shop, and left to find _The Grim_.

Mind having wandered, Slughorn gestured to his desk, now fully engaged with Petunia's business. Captain Stubby Boardman's visit had been all but forgotten. "Come on, then. I have something new for you..."

Needless to say, he was a busy man.

* * *

"Two thousand Galleons!"

The crew uproariously tromped back on deck, their footprints ringed with mud, leaving tracks on the oiled steps, Finnigan and Jordan in the lead. As they approached the deck, though, they quietened, for something was not right. The men reached for their scabbards, and clambered up. Their footsteps slowed to a halt.

Reclining on a heap of crates and barrels in the very center at the ship was a young man with messy hair dark as midnight and eyes that made forests look grim and unbecoming, smoking a pipe which puffed out rings of heather smoke. He wore a billowing coat the color of fresh cream and a waistcoat of fine suede and had the most handsome boots, and looked the essence of casual unconcern.

"Captain Boardman." The stranger tipped his head.

The crew weren't fooled, for the most dangerous adversaries never look like true adversaries, and so advanced, baring their teeth. Before they could move, the captain had barreled over his men, placing his hands on their shoulders.

"Stand down!" Sirius ordered righteously, pushing to the front of the crowd. When he saw the youngster he grinned an impish grin and stepped forward to greet him. Harry clambered up. "Everybody come and meet my godson, the fearsome buccaneer: Harry Potter!"

They shook hands like they had never met before, and the crew looked on in wonder.

"He'll be joining us for our journey down south." The captain firmly clapped Harry on the shoulder, and the newcomer stifled a cough. "And I have the perfect gift to keep you entertained along the way."

For a moment all was suspended in confusion, but when Sirius beckoned to the group, one of them shoved Draco forward, and he stumbled into Harry, who quickly steadied him.

Once he realized everybody was looking at them expectantly, Harry hesitantly pulled Draco against him by the waist, formed a fist with his free hand, and let out a halfhearted growl. "Oh―um, _argh._ "

Very much convinced, the onlookers hooted and catcalled, and once more tumult was restored to the ship. Finnigan rolled his eyes at the pervasive air of obliviousness that seemed to seep through the floorboards and into the skulls of everybody around him, but only shook his head and closed his mouth and set off to work.

"Alright, you lazy dogs!" Sirius barked, demeanor changing. "Let's get young Harry on his way home, then!"

The proclamation was met with more caterwauling, and the crew immediately set to work, withdrawing the bridge and setting to the stern. _The Grim_ took off, sailing through the valley between the mountain ridges, gliding through the clouds once more. In the distance, the sun rose hot and red in the sky, and miles below the grass and forests of stone crevice shone a sleek gold. Finnigan and Thomas began turning the gears at the sides, and the two metal wings, each grand and glorious, unfolded in all their criss-crossed wire glory, flapping, propelling the ship forward.

Standing side by side on the deck, Harry and Draco gazed at the landscape sprawled out before them, and shared a clandestine smile.

* * *

The next few days passed in a haze of bliss, and by the first day the ship found herself dozing through the pleasant lull of repeating activity.

During the day, Sirius took to teaching Harry how to spar, and gifted him his very own sword, claiming that the weapon worked best for those who were worthy, that it was an ancient heirloom passed down from Godric Gryffindor, one of the four founding noble houses. Naturally, Harry was not as perceptive to this as any Grimmauldian history aficionado would have been, but he made do. Together on the platform by the steering wheel they could be seen during the brighter hours of the morning, when the winds were still soft and the air was still cool, practicing together. The captain would demonstrate a move, and Harry would strive to replicate, and the two would cross blades, only to have Harry trip and stumble into the wheel. The others rolled their eyes at this endless cycle, and went about their own business as per usual, such was the norm.

"Alright, remember to keep your wrist _loose,_ Harry, but your grip _firm;_ it gives you better form..." Sirius straightened Harry's elbow. "Right. Now give it a try."

Harry thrust at the thin air about him, lunging forward as if fighting an invisible adversary, unsteady on his feet; he was still getting used to the grip, the weight of the blade. Sirius prodded him with the blunt of his sword, and he swiveled around.

"Good. Now do it again," the man prompted, gesturing with his blade, and Harry obliged, readying his stance. For a moment there was silence, and then a flurry of movement as Harry flourished his sword and began his swift assault, lunging forward.

Without breaking a sweat, Sirius sidestepped and met the point head on with his own, maneuvering the blade and tugging so that Harry's fell from his grasp, and the boy stumbled, bumping into the steering wheel. Immediately the man rushed to steady him. In the background, the others could be seen bustling about, shimmying up the mast.

"Careful there. Alright, let's give it another go, shall we?"

Down on the deck, Draco spent his mornings burning through the books stacked in heaps on Sirius' shelves, and was often found curled up against the mast or standing by the bow, eyes lidded against the sun, casting gold sparks across his face. It was during these times that Dean would cautiously sit by the star and paint or draw, often leaving stirring charcoal stills or dainty portraits of Draco reading scattered about in the wind. On a few occasions he slipped them to Draco, who used them as bookmarks and could not hide his smile whenever he accidentally flipped to them.

(At other times, the blonde could be found fiddling with Seamus' reed pipe, or tinkering with the captain's old pocket watches, for which he often sought out Lee's set of screwdrivers, wherever he'd found them. Or assembling strange mechanical creatures out of scrap bits and bobs. Among other things.)

...

Lunch they ate together at the long table in the mess hall below deck, the captain and crew and all. The shipmates would sit themselves down along a single oaken table stretching from one end of the hall, to the stone furnace, to the other, near the kitchen window, and out would waltz the shy, soft-spoken Neville Longbottom, resident plant junkie ― really, if one entered the kitchen, all one would find would be ingredients and hanging greens, _everywhere_ ― and proclaimed cook, piling plates upon plates, the silver pans clanging against one another in merry cacophony.

(Nobody, for Neville's sake, commented on the quality of the food. Not to say that it was _bad_ ― there had simply been times when they'd all had better.)

Sirius would seat himself at the head of the table, and the others would bellow to and fro, their laughter carrying through the cabins. They would screech and cuss and holler at one another, pitting insults and compliments back and forth like the swings of a pendulum, and occasionally these heated discussions would devolve into quarrels and brawls that required interference and blushing apologies to both Harry and Draco, esteemed guests as they were. Mealtimes were jolly that way.

It was through these daily gatherings that the two came to learn a great deal about the rest of the crew. Each was fascinating.

Seamus, though originally hailing from Ireland, had no memories of his home, for his parents had fled in terror of what might happen should people find out about their magical origins; is father had left when he accidentally found out about Seamus' mother's magical background. Dean originally had been an unhappy Healer's apprentice. Lee Jordan once thought he would work with the Board of Governors. Neville's parents had been cut down fighting the Basilisk, a terror that had for years now slumbered underground, to be awoken only by a Chosen One. So it went.

(Harry was initially skeptical about that last statement, but, then again, this was Grimmauld. There were falling stars who were alive, ships that could fly, and lightning that could be snatched up and bottled straight from the skies. That was statement enough.)

When they were done the crew would disperse to their stations once more, on the lookout for stormy skies, and Draco and Harry would retreat also to their separate stations: Harry back to sparring lessons with Sirius, and Draco to the kitchen quarters, where he would help Neville with the cleanup. More than oft the two would stay hidden away in the kitchens, confiding in one another for hours on end; at other times, Draco would disappear off to nowhere, flighty as he felt, and people would happen upon him curled up in the most unusual of places.

Not that anybody minded ― he was a delight. They all were, really.

...

Dinner found Sirius regaling the two guests with his own cooking ― a hobby, he whispered to them, that not even the crew knew about: he piled upon them plates and plates of exotic delicacies he claimed to have picked up during his travels when he was younger. They ate separately from the rest of the crew, holed up in the captain's own cabins, just the two of them. Neither would admit how much they came to enjoy this time alone, away from the hubbub.

"I think you'll like this," Sirius announced, sweeping through the twin doors with two more plates balanced in his hands. "Salmon mousse, foie de gras. Bon appetit, you young 'uns. If you need anything, I'll be up on deck with the others. Enjoy!"

The room was dark save for the single candle whittling away at itself at the center of the table, where Harry and Draco sat patiently, and the captain winked at them both as he sidled out in a manner that perfectly juxtaposed his dramatic entrance. Once he was gone, they were alone.

"Oh, try this!" Harry piped up, holding out his fork, and Draco leaned over to nibble at the end. He watched as Draco's hair fell gracefully over his forehead and tried to hide the tremors in his hand as the star's warm breath teased over his knuckles, and felt blood rush up to his head when the blonde moaned.

" _Oh,_ " Draco did not hide his pleasure as the mousse melted on his tongue, "it's absolutely brilliant!"

"Y-Yeah." Harry dug into his plate with gusto so as to hide his reddened cheeks. "So, how've you been these past few days? I've been meaning to ask. I―I'm sorry about the other day, you know."

Draco fell silent at this. "Don't worry," he smiled softly, "it all worked out in the end, didn't it?"

"And, um, how about the crew? They aren't... bothering you too much, right?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "No. How come? Concerned for my well-being, are you?"

"Well, wasn't I the one who said we'd get to the wall safe and sound? I intend to keep that promise, you know."

For a moment they shared an unreadable look, and time stopped. The incessant ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner faded, the tossing of the wine amidst a current of turbulence splashed against the glass rim and stopped mid-wave, and the wavering of the candlelight stopped flickering. Harry found himself tripping and falling, swallowed by the iridescent grey of Draco's irises, which glimmered, sending him spiraling into unending stormcloud depths. He found himself leaning forward, ever so slightly ― it felt _right,_ letting his baser instincts take over, and Draco was so _close_ , his eyes wide and unblinking and his cheeks flushed―

Then the thread snapped, and the moment was over. He blinked, and drew back, and Draco startled like he had been stung, and looked away.

"R-Right," he mumbled.

"Yeah," Harry added unnecessarily, releasing a breath he had no idea he had been holding.

They made it through the remainder of the meal with stunted, stuttering conversation, most of which ended in tense, trailing sentences and secret smiles, but neither seemed to mind.

...

Come evening, Draco and Harry split once more. On clearer days, when the clouds gave way to a misty midnight sky spattered with stars, the latter could be seen jostling about and mingling with the crew ― many of whom Sirius suspected were teaching Harry underhanded tricks like the sleight of hand, while the captain spirited the former off to hidden rooms in his cabin for sessions unknown.

On evenings like these, Sirius taught Draco how to play the piano, a habit he had picked up in his earlier years living as nobility. The man never had the chance to pick up where he left off, back in the day, but a few years back he had won a rickety antique piano in a barter gone well, and on days he felt pressured he would steal off in the dead of the night to play a few notes. Together they would huddle on the bench, squinting beneath the candlelight ― they dared not use any stronger source, lest they be discovered ― inching their way through notes, until Draco, who was a remarkably quick learner, could intuitively play Grimmauldian medleys off by heart.

(When the crew, who post-prandially retired beneath the deck when there were no chores to complete, played Exploding Snap cards and passed around Firewhiskey till they were sloshed, they could sometimes hear the telltale sound of music, tinkling and lovely as a brook, filter through the floorboards. They passed these sounds off for the souls the captain had supposedly drowned in earlier years, lulling them to sleep with their songs.)

At other times, Sirius taught Draco how to waltz. His reasoning behind this was that now that he was in Grimmauld, he was expected to behave most nobly, and one could not accomplish that without having at least a basic understanding of ballroom dance. When the crew snored with the rocking of the ship, Sirius would lead Draco out and lead him through the steps on the abandoned deck, alone with no company save for the stars above. The hours before dawn found them laughing as Draco stumbled about, adamantly trying to follow the captain's lead, but miserably failing.

Needless to say, Draco did not pick up dancing as quickly as he did music, but that was alright.

On stormier days, though, when the clouds billowed angrily about _The Grim_ and none could see her silhouette through the bleak roar of the winds, they collected lightning. The galleon's majestic wire wings would spread, jagged and ominous, and they would soar through the storm, and blinding white cracks of lightning would thunder past, latching onto the tips of the metal. Each spark would rush down the lengths of the overlapping appendages, crackling, racing, and the crew would yell at one another over the sound of the beating rain.

Everybody would rush about the slippery deck, decked in their signature raincoats, sporting leather canisters. They plugged their casks into the mechanical openings, each sturdy and built as a cannon, and let the lightning course through into each container, thundering rebelliously, relentlessly, fighting to break free, for nothing could ever contain lightning.

Draco and Harry were paired together, because _of course they were,_ as per the unspoken accord aboard the ship. The first night, Seamus tossed Harry two baggy ponchos and goggles and hurried aboard without another word, and Harry was at a loss as to what they were to do as the ship tumbled and rocketed through the sky. It was only until Draco prodded him into action that he passed one overcoat to the blonde and slipped into his own, feeling very much like an unattractive sack of rotting potatoes, and stumbled up onto the deck.

Above the racket of the storm, Sirius motioned them towards the nearest portal, where several of the other crew members were haggling over the spokes. Bolts of lightning flashed closer, and closer. Together they lugged one of the empty caskets over and planted it atop the open electric terminal, and waited.

Not a moment further, a streak of light raced across the sky, fuming as it snapped at the ship's wire wings, and began curling in, winding recklessly down the wires, traveling down and under through the countless cables, then _up_ towards the port ―

― and suddenly it struck, sharp as a whip, heaving so heavily that Harry and Draco almost lost their grip on the slick exterior of the container, and those who were struggling to keep the metal latch open tripped. Only a single bolt was formidable, lashing to and fro, feral, but the two at the heel kept at it, digging their nails into the leather to keep from dropping, scrabbling in all directions as the light flashed before them ―

― and then it was done, and the spark withered, and their work was done. They could feel the subdued rumble of the bolts inside, and it was complete. The others cheered and let go of the bars, and the metal port snapped shut with a sound _thud,_ and Harry quickly screwed on the lid to prevent bits of lightning from escaping, successfully stoppering the transaction.

"We did it!" Harry whooped.

"Huzzah!" hollered the rest.

As soon as it was complete, Harry and Draco tore off their goggles and burst into exhilarated laughter and embraced, and everybody rejoiced. For catching lightning is an experience that only those who have experienced it can firmly express: one that so fills the soul with adrenaline, as if one has been struck by lightning oneself. And both Harry and Draco knew now the rush of glory it felt to be flying free, facing the elements.

...

By the final day, Harry had become an expert marksman, having finally bested master duelist Captain Stubby Boardman in a standoff. The man had been beaming with pride the whole day afterwards, and Harry had felt the glow of achievement rise in his own chest, and all was well. After dinner, Sirius took everybody aside.

"We'll be stopping at the island tomorrow," he announced sagely, and murmurs spread through the crowd like wildfire. Harry was intrigued by this progression. "But tonight, we have another activity to worry about! Start the music!"

The crew burst into raucous cheers once more, and everybody filed off to their stations. Neville tinkered with a few knobs on a handy mechanical gramophone his grandmother had once owned, one that had to be manually played like a windup musical box, and he was happy to sit aside and oblige. With a few slow turns, it crackled to life, and on lulled the sensuous, wistful music of old Grimmauld, a nighttime serenade.

For the evening they had set up several torches in a wide merry circle on the deck, casting warm, flickering shadows across the floor. With much flair, Sirius straightened and held out his arm, and Draco hid a smile behind his hand and took the proffered hand and let the captain guide him to the center of the floor, just as they had practiced.

They began waltzing to the tune, almost perfectly in sync save for Draco's occasional stumble, and it was so simultaneously human and lovely that the others looked at them with a varying mixture of indolent fondness and amusement on their faces. Many hummed along to the music. Others were nodding along to their steps.

Harry leaned back against the wall, arms and ankles crossed, watching the pair bemusedly. His eyes were drawn to Draco, who, clad in an elegant white shirt that billowed ever so slightly in the breeze, looked the picture of bliss, the corners of his mouth curving upwards mirthfully.

He found he could not look away from the smooth arch of his neck, or the soft swaying of his hair in the wind, or the slow blink of his half-lidded eyes. He found that now he truly did not wish to.

He could not hide his smile at this.

Draco could not hide his laughter as he narrowly avoided stepping on Sirius' toes once more, his face alight. It was then that the captain noticed how his features were alight, how his hair seemed to have gained a shimmering sheen, and all his previous reservations were confirmed.

"Draco," Sirius dipped the star backwards, lowering his voice so none could hear, and muttered into his ear, "Draco. I know what you are."

He pulled the blonde up, and Draco sucked in a sharp breath. The glow he was previously basked in faded instantly, and his eyes widened in terror. Sirius kept his grip firm as the star stumbled and tried to pull away, and reeled him in once more, feeling the fingers at his shoulder clutch harder.

"No, no. Have no fear," he whispered in Draco's ear. They continued their waltz. "Trust me. Nobody here will harm you, but once you get out there, there are plenty who might."

Relieved, Draco released the breath he'd been holding, the glow returning slightly. Sirius did not relent.

"Your emotions give you away, Draco. You're turning on and off like a switch. You have to control your emotions, you know. Your glow's been getting stronger by the day, and I think we both know exactly why."

He darted a glance in a certain lackadaisical youngster's direction and very un-subtly raised his brows.

Draco faltered, oblivious to his lack of discretion, and frowned.

"Of course we know why I'm glowing," he protested matter-of-factly, as if it were obvious. "I'm a star. And what do stars do best?"

Sirius grinned. "Certainly not the waltz, I'd say."

Before they could continue, the captain felt a tap on his shoulder, and he turned to see Harry standing behind him.

"May I?" Harry asked, and, being the _amazing, all-knowing, magnanimous_ man that he was, _Sirius Black the Honorable, First of His Name_ , graciously stepped aside. Mentally, he made sure to have his future peers carve that onto his headstone.

Promptly, Harry took the captain's place, gently taking Draco's hand in one of his and placing the other on his waist. His initial burst of dumb courage subsided the moment he felt Draco's fingers wrap around his own, and suddenly he felt completely unsure and out of place, like he was a specter detachedly watching the view from above. But he did not withdraw, and found himself pulling Draco closer, and it felt so natural that he did not dare do otherwise. At this, Draco laughed, his features lighting up.

"Have you practiced dancing before?" Harry inquired with a raised brow.

"Have _you?_ " Draco shot back, unable to suppress his smile, eyes glowing. "You're even worse at this than I am!"

"You didn't deny it. Was this what you and Sirius were doing in the evenings?" Harry's eyes widened, and he faux gasped like he had heard something scandalous, grinning. "How delightful to hear."

Draco playfully stuck out his tongue. "Sounds like you could use some lessons, too."

"You just stepped on my foot, _mi amor,_ " teased Harry.

"Okay, okay!" Draco stared intently his feet, as if willing them to cooperate, and skittered to an abrupt halt. "Alright, try now."

They began dancing once more, only to scatter about just as miserably as before, and both of them burst into peals of delighted laughter. Neither noticed the way Draco seemed to suddenly be emanating an aura of brilliant white light.

"See?"

"Hmm, very good," Harry smirked, and the two picked up their pace in time with the music. "I think you're qualified teach a three year-old now."

He dodged Draco's halfhearted whack on the shoulder with all good grace, and spun the star around in a circle with all the poise of a professional, feeling jittery in spite of his seemingly laid-back exterior. Around them, the others also began toddling about in their own meager attempts to dance gracefully. The night was calm and the air was alive with the telltale whispers of a summer long gone, and, once more, as those aboard _The Grim_ danced and chatted the hours away, all was well, and all their troubles were forgotten, swept away with the breeze.

* * *

Harry woke to the sun in his face, a wracking pain in his head, and a weight on his chest. There was something hard digging into his back. As soon as he tried opening his eyes, the sunlight was blinding, sending a sharp pain shooting through his skull, and he groaned weakly in protest.

"Morning, sunshine!" Sirius called from the helm. "Had quite a night, didn't you?"

For the second time, Harry cracked open his eyes, with great difficulty, raising a hand to shield against the glare of morning light. Pulling his glasses down from where they lay askew beside him, he squinted and glanced up. He was lying on the bench lining the cabin walls. Some of the crew were sprawled out across the deck in various positions, each more sluggish and embarrassing than the next. Others had already risen, and were bustling about the deck as per usual. Sirius was at the steering wheel, jocundly drumming his fingers on the wooden spokes.

"W-Wha...?" Harry grumbled, and tried to move, only to stall from the weight draped over his side. When he looked down, he was met with Draco's fine features and a faceful of his soft blonde hair.

Draco was fast asleep, his arms crossed on Harry's chest and his head resting delicately atop them. When in slumber, his features looked vulnerable, mollified by unconsciousness. It seemed no darkness could reach him. Harry swore that from his angle, Draco had some of the longest eyelashes he had ever seen.

Not wanting to wake the star, Harry lay still for a few moments, watching the steady, inconspicuous bob of Draco's head as his chest rose and fell. Stubbornly, his sleep-ridden mind very reasonably insisted on him putting Draco to bed since he looked so tired.

Reaching out a hand, he ever so softly rested his fingers on Draco's shoulder. When he did not wake, Harry grasped his shoulder and eased the sleeping star off him, and sat up. In a quick, fluid motion, he crouched down and hefted the blonde up onto his back, stifling the protests from his aching muscles.

As if in automatic response, Draco sighed contentedly and buried his face in the crook of Harry's neck, arms wrapping around his neck snugly. He showed no signs of wakefulness. Harry drew in a sharp breath, feeling the tickling of Draco's even breathing down his cheek and his hair on the nape of his neck. His face was on fire, and cursed himself to the very ends of the earth as his body suddenly began reacting in perhaps what was the most inappropriate manner possible.

(He told himself it was just nature's way of punishing him so early in the morning. It had nothing to do with Draco. It was just... biology.)

He was pulled from his self-deprecating thoughts by Sirius' footsteps clanging down the steps.

"Hello there, Harry," said the captain, whose brows rose into his hairline when he saw him carrying Draco. "Oh, pardon me. It seems I'm interrupting something."

"Sirius!" Harry hissed, blushing in spite of himself. He groaned once more as his head thundered.

"Lad, you might've had a tad too much Firewhiskey last night." Sirius clapped him on the shoulder. "Luckily for you, we're almost at Ottery St. Catchpole's, so you can take however many naps you want once we've arrived. Molly has a wicked hangover cure."

"Wh―" Harry spluttered, unable to string together any coherent thoughts. He grimaced. "Never mind. I don't want to know."

Before he could say anything else, Draco stirred, inhaling sharply as he slowly blinked, sleep fading from his eyes.

After a moment, through confused, half-lidded eyes, he frowned and mumbled softly, "Harry?"

Hurriedly, Harry let him down, bracing him by the shoulders lest he fall.

"Morning," he said quietly, marginally tightening his grip when Draco blinked and stumbled against him. The sight of a bedraggled Draco was so endearing that for a minute his heart did a funny little dance in his chest. He really needed to see a physician after this whole thing was over, what with these occasional pains in his chest.

"I see you're doing well, Draco," Sirius piped up as a means of greeting. "Did you sleep well?"

"Mm, good morning, Sirius." Draco rubbed his eyes blearily. "I―"

The ship jolted then, rocking them all sideways with a swing. A mighty gale blew, blasting them with a mighty gust of hot wind, and Sirius latched onto his hat to keep it from flying off. Harry's grip around Draco's shoulder tightened inconspicuously.

From the perch atop the fore topmast, Seamus roared, " _Land ho!_ "

Sirius' expression turned alert. Those of the crew who had not yet roused finally came to, muzzily wiping the last remnants of the night from their eyes. The rest crowed raucously in response.

"Land ho!"

"We're here!"

" _Captain_!"

"It's happening!" Sirius yelled, eyes ablaze, and swung up onto the ship shrouds for a better view. " _Land sighted, men! Get to work!_ "

Harry and Draco exchanged a look, all vestiges of the previous night slipping away like sand in a glass, and rushed to the edge of the ship. As the galleon tilted precariously to one side, and they clung to the railings for dear life lest they fall, the clouds brushed past them with the softest of touches. All around them were plains of glorious white, of clouds with sunlight glinting off their dewy veneers.

"Is this what you saw on a cloudy day?" Harry hollered above the wind, shielding his eyes from the glare. With his free hand he gripped the railing, and cheered with an echoing _whoop_ that was carried off into the wind.

"Oh, piss off," Draco laughed good-naturedly. "It was a lot darker when it rained."

For a moment the ship indolently sailed through the sky, suspended, and then the stern angled downwards, its figurehead of a ferocious lupine creature with glowing eyes and a snarling, gaping maw cutting a clean path through the clouds. Continuously they angled downwards, so far down that the ship was almost perpendicular to the ground below, and the people and the trunks on deck began sliding downwards, scrabbling for purchase. The clouds were so thick that they crowded them like too much cream in a pie.

Then they were through the clouds, and found themselves soaring over an obsidian mountain swathed in violets and vernal greens, where there were peaks were the slate grey of the rock faces jutted out like carved faces. The mountain twisted farther and farther up till it touched the sky, and then curved downwards like a tidal wave, as if it were a person grown too tall for the sky, forced to bend at the waist. Firmly ensconced among the mountain and the sky was a bay that swept inwards to a lagoon of crisp azure, the only noticeable passage of entry, shadowed by trees. Large birds shrieked, their cries echoing through the valleys. The area seemed so vivid and larger-than-life that Harry almost lost his footing, like he had found himself spirited away to Neverland. Beside him, Draco's eyes lit up, riveted.

Seamus strode up to the two as the ship began its descent, and clapped them both on the shoulders.

"Ain't it a beaut?"

" _That's_ Ottery St. Catchpole?" Harry gawked.

Seamus shrugged, and swiped at a grease smudge on his forehead.

"Yep. We call it the Burrow, if that helps. Bit of a nasty shock for me when I found out, too."

"Why the Burrow?" Draco frowned.

"Beats me," quipped Seamus. "Never got 'round to askin'. It isn't always good, asking questions. Could get you in a real pickle at the best o' times."

Draco only nodded slowly, waving off his confusion, and Seamus set off to work once more. As he and Harry leaned against the banister, a dark shape passed by overhead, its shadow flashing, wings beating, and darted down towards the forest green below. Its eerie, primeval cry reverberated back at them. Draco leapt backwards as if stung.

Harry whipped around in alarm. "Did anybody see that? What was that?"

"Here be dragons, Harry, m'boy!" Sirius bellowed. "Dragons, I say!"

Draco turned to Harry, eyes wide, and could see his own incredulous expression reflected back at him on the other's face also.

" _Dragons?_ " the two mouthed at each other simultaneously, and turned away, unable to stifle their gaping.

* * *

" _Captain at the wheel!_ "

With a fervid bluster, _The Grim_ nose-dived into the glimmering clear bay water. The collision had the floorboards quaking, and everybody save for Sirius was thrown of their feet as they were bombarded with a surge of water, spraying across the deck, drenching them in salt. Draco and Harry, who stood side by side at the helm, clutched to the railing for dear life as the wave crashed down around them. Draco threw his head back and laughed, and the tips of his dripping hair glowed a lustrous silver in the sunlight, and his eyes gleamed fey, and for a moment Harry's mouth felt drier than sand and his heart thumped so painfully that it felt too big for his chest.

As the water cleared and splashed off the sides of the ship, they held onto each other and laughed, brushing their dampened hair out of their eyes. Sirius dusted his hands and stepped back, admiring his handiwork.

"Impeccable landing, eh, boys?"

The others collectively heaved a sigh.

They sailed on into the curve of the bay, where the sand shone gold and the waves demurely ebbed and disappeared. Harry could not see a single soul, but he felt the dense jungles ahead buzzing with life, coiled tense like a wire. The hubbub had settled, and the crew mingled about on deck, poised. Aside from the whispers from the trees, the air was rendered oddly silent, and it made Harry's skin prickle and his head swim, like there was a faint shimmer in the air all around them.

As they approached the shore and docked, the galleon scraping against the sandy beach alcove with a satisfying groan, floating not meters away from dry land, Sirius retired from the wheel and made his way over to where Harry and Draco stood. He clapped them both on the shoulder.

"Lads, I'm sorry this is the farthest we can take you. The winds are troubled beyond these shores of late, and something wicked stirs. I can feel it. We have to investigate, but we'll be back in no time with news." The captain fished a rolled-up piece of parchment out of his breast pocket and discreetly slipped it into Harry's hands. "Give my best to everyone when you reach the Burrow, alright? You tell them that Captain Stubby Boardman will be back in due time."

Harry nodded and pocketed the note, and warily began descending the steps, his belongings swinging over his shoulder.

"How do we get there? How will we know where it is?" he asked once his feet had hit the shallows with a splash. As Draco stepped down after him, Harry held out a hand to steady his landing. Ripples pooled about his boots.

"I'll let you both in on a secret," Sirius called conspiratorially, leaning against the railing on deck. "There are times when things appear not when you search for them, but only when you stop searching."

"What does that mean?"

"You'll figure it out, lads." The wind picked up, and the captain turned towards the sun, facing the breeze, his hair fanning out behind him. "Looks like now's the time. We'll meet each other again soon. Sooner than you know."

With that he sent them his signature wink and disappeared, materializing once again behind the wheel. The engines hummed as the ship revved into motion once again and turned on its tail in the water, its metal wings emerging and unfolding like those of a great swan in flight. The crew waved at the two, and Sirius saluted them one final time, and then the ship put on a burst of speed and soared gracefully towards the sky once more, taking flight, and was soon lost from sight.

All that remained of _The Grim_ were its two bedraggled passengers and calm circles of cresses disturbing the previously unblemished lagoon surface.

Harry bit back the wistfulness clinging like damp water to his heart, and turned towards the trees, through which he saw nothing but foliage and uncertainty. He turned to Draco.

"Ready to go?"

"Of course."

* * *

Idly Harry wondered how he had managed to land himself in an unfamiliar forest... for the third time the past six days.

He should have been used to it by now. Life happened in cycles, after all.

Only this time, he had nothing. Not even an inkling of an idea. While he had been at Hagrid's, he had followed his gut feeling, had had a sense of where he should be headed, but this time he was completely stumped. His blood ran silent, and did not seek him out.

This time the dense forestry was unlike that of the murky undergrowth in the Beauxbatons ruins, where in the shadows lurked the dead and there was deceptively little of life.

This time the trees were _alive_.

They breathed with the air, teeming with life. Around them there was no silence; the air rang with a low buzzing, pierced through by intermittent shrieks and howls echoing in the distance. Shadows danced, flitting to and fro amidst the branches, and as they trekked deeper through the vines and fallen logs Harry could make out the occasional glow of fireflies and will o' wisp lighting up the groves. Branches rustled ahead, and Harry felt unease settle deep in his bones as the natural aromas of exotic flowers tingled against his skin.

Now, if only they could just find a proper _path_...

So stuck in his reverie and so low was Draco's voice that he almost missed it when Draco spoke.

"You're thinking too hard."

Harry stumbled over a stray root as he was jerked from his thoughts. His fingers had dents where he had clutched his compass―an ugly, bent old thing―and the needle on his pathfinder wavered constantly, spinning like a hatter off his rocket. "What?"

"You were speaking to yourself," Draco elaborated after a pause, pointedly staring at the ground where he trod. "Don't you remember what Sirius said before he left?"

"Oh, sorry about that." Harry thought on this, before conceding, and stopped in his tracks, slipping the pathfinder into his pocket. "I suppose I was just preoccupied."

"With Cho?" Draco stared ahead resolutely, avoiding his gaze. His tone was light when he said this.

In truth, not a single thought of Cho had plagued Harry in the past two days, but the reminder sent him reeling. It made him restless with unease.

 _Right, Cho_.

"Right, um. So, uh, how long have we been walking?" he blurted out in a meek attempt to divert the topic. Mentally, he pictured slapping himself on both cheeks. Draco narrowed his eyes. "I keep getting the feeling that we haven't made any progress."

"I've no idea," he said slowly, stepping over a puddle. About them, the leaves glistened with condensation and dew from the early morning. "An hour? I suppose we'll just have to―"

A snapping through the treetops behind them cut him off. His eyes widened, and nervously he cast a cursory glance at the leafy canopy above them. A few beams of sun peeked through the leaves, sending columns of smooth golden light shooting through the undergrowth.

"Did you hear that?" Draco's fingers found Harry's sleeve and unconsciously tightened, snagging the cloth.

Harry turned to raise a brow at him. "Hear what?"

At the unimpressed tone of Harry's voice, Draco sighed and released a breath he didn't know he had been holding. With some difficulty he unlatched his fingers from Harry's jacket wrist and tamped down the unsettling feeling stewing in his gut.

Valiantly he shook his head. "I thought I heard something."

"It was probably nothing," Harry reassured absentmindedly."After all―"

As he reached out to lay a reassuring hand on Draco's shoulder, Harry caught a flash, a quickening of shadows, in his peripheral vision. Under his touch, Draco stiffened.

"You saw that, too?" Harry murmured, momentarily spooked, and felt for his pocket once more. Better at least have a sense of direction, he reasoned, opting for logic over faith. "Let me get my pathfinder."

"It'd be hard not to." Draco's frown was tinged with worry. Urgently he reached up and wrapped his fingers around Harry's wrist, which still laid heavy and foreboding on his own shoulder. A shiver ran down his spine, and in spite of the heat he felt chills prickling at the back of his neck. "Harry, this place gives me the creeps. I feel like we're being watched."

Harry furrowed his brow as his fingers, while rifling, closed around nothing. He patted at all his pockets, but came up empty. It was no use being spooked easily; they had already come this far, and Sirius had guaranteed that they had nothing to fear. He trusted Sirius―the man was a great one. "It was probably just a trick of the light. Hold on, I think I dropped it somewhere over here just now."

Draco didn't look convinced, but did not press the matter further. They turned back, hoping to hasten, when suddenly behind them there darted by an unmistakable rustling, which faded as fast as it came. Harry stilled and looked back again, and Draco tugged at his sleeve desperately.

"Harry, _please_. This doesn't feel right," he hissed. Harry waved him off.

"Hold _on_ ," he glowered, and backpedaled a few steps. When he scanned the ground he saw no glint of rusted gold, or any sign of tracks in the dirt. "I don't see anything."

"I thought we already established that whenever you _think_ something is wrong, it probably _is!_ Now can we _please_ go?"

Harry crouched among the leaves. "No, I swear I _just_ had the stupid thing. Let's face it―" He lifted a large leaf and peered under it, before repeating the action for another. "―we're lost."

"Didn't Sirius tell us to just follow our instincts?" Draco wrapped his arms forlornly around his middle as he stood a few meters away, watching Harry fumble around for the stupid golden contraption. "If it's bothering you that much, I'll find you another one, but can we please just get out of here first?"

"Don't be like that," Harry protested, and shuffled away some more. "Look, we'd be out of here in no time if you stopped and helped me look for the damn thing. Quit being so impatient, will you?"

"You don't even need it!" Draco threw up his hands in frustration. "If you're going to stay here, I think I'm going to go first. This place gives me the creeps."

"Fine," Harry grumbled, shooing him off with a vague gesture. "Be that way. I'll catch up in a moment."

He missed the upset look Draco threw his way.

"Alright," the blonde sighed, expression undecipherable, and headed off briskly. "You go do that, then."

Harry shook his head and bent down, brushing away at some fallen twigs, when his fingertips brushed against a cold metal surface ridden with bumps and scratches. His heart leapt, and as he reached out and grasped at the object he crowed victoriously.

"Aha! There we go." When he stood, brushed the residues of dirt off the worn surface of his compass, and looked up, Harry found Draco to be nowhere in sight. Sucking in a breath, the brunet ran a hand through his hair and stalked off. "Oh, honestly."

He batted a few low-hanging vines away and ducked under an arch made by an archaic tree trunk, ignoring the way droplets of water rained down upon him whenever he disturbed a few too many plants. Around him swayed bunches of fleshy pink flowers, and if he strained his ears he could make out the rustling that meant Draco's footfalls a little ahead of him.

"Draco!" he called, lackadaisically. What he would give for a cup of Sirius' home-brewed tea right about now. His head still throbbed from his late-night toils. "Come on, you _must_ be joking. Draco! Would it kill you to slow down a little?"

As if on cue, there suddenly came a muffled crash and a panicked cry up ahead, as if somebody had fallen, and Harry felt his heartbeat pick up.

"Draco?" he ventured cautiously. When there came no answer, Harry shoved through the stray branches and bushes, clambering over yet another arched trunk. The forest around him rumbled a warning, and he unwittingly found himself breaking into a run, racing through the mist. "Draco! _Draco_! Damn it."

He tore through the wood, free of the looming trees, and burst into a patched glade, obscured from view by a ring of trees. Suspended from a branch, dangling archly in a thick net woven from coarse twine, was Draco, looking unscathed save for the few stray hairs falling over his face.

Draco's eyes widened as Harry tumbled into the clearing, and he gasped in relief. "Harry! Oh, thank goodness."

His earlier panic forgotten, Harry struggled to stifle his laughter as he watched Draco flail around in the net, only to flop back down.

"Got yourself caught in a bear trap?" he smirked.

"Stop laughing, Potter," Draco bit his lip in indignation.

" _Potter?_ " Harry couldn't help but grin, but reached for his blade all the same. "What happened to _Harry?_ "

"If this is a bear trap as you say, then we should _go_ ," Draco raised a brow. "Now can you please, by all that is good and safe, let me down, _Harry Potter_?"

"I don't know," Harry mused, surveying the trap, his gaze following the rope as it looped around the branch and down, around the tree trunk, and―

"Oh, look," he exclaimed. "It ends behind that tree. I'll be back."

"Okay." Draco yielded, and closed his eyes.

Heartily Harry strode over past a wizened, gnarled root hidden beyond the ring, and pulled experimentally at the taut knots. It was tough and coarse and rough to touch.

"Harry?" Draco called wearily.

"Yeah, don't worry, I've got it," Harry called back, fingers tracing the rope, and crouched down. His eyes narrowed as he sought out the knots.

As he set his blade and began sawing at the rope he found that it resisted from fraying.

"Is it working?" Draco's voice was quiet, but it still carried through the trees with a strangely tense gravity. All around them, the forest stirred, like a beast waking from slumber, like it was one entity with thousands of tiny parts interspersed in the air around them.

"Hm," Harry grunted offhandedly, "I'm getting it."

He was not getting it. The rope stubbornly evaded the blade, slipping to and fro like a live snake, and he cursed. Finally, he gave up and reached for one of the larger weapons hidden in his coat.

There came a whisper of the wind behind him, followed by a rustling of footsteps, but Harry was too preoccupied with trying to worry the rope to notice.

The sound of a string strung taut filled the air the next moment, and there came a telltale prickling sensation at the back of his neck, and very suddenly he felt something approach from behind him.

"I wouldn't touch that if I were you."

Harry's blood ran cold, and he froze, fingers stilling in their place.

"Very good. Hands off, pal. Now stand."

Ever so slowly, Harry stood, the muscles in his back aching and his heart pounding fists against his rib.

"Drop the dagger."

Hopelessly, Harry grit his teeth and reluctantly pried his fingers apart. The dagger slipped easily from his grasp, landing in the piles of dead leaves with an unintelligible thud.

"I can sense your curiosity." This time he definitely felt the sting of a sharpened weapon point. "Turn around."

He squeezed his eyes shut and jerkily clenched his fist, and inched his way around, feeling a lump in his throat. As he turned there came that sickeningly familiar whistle through the air and the same dreadful feeling of falling and all of a sudden there was that very same revolting _thump_ and that very same wet, hot pain erupting in his temple and shooting through his head.

As he fell, Harry registered only few sensations, his vision blurring and his ears ringing and the dirt on the ground beneath him damp.

He heard Draco's frantic cry of his name, colored bright with worry, distorted by his wavering senses. He thought he saw his knife hilt, catching the sunlight and gleaming not a few feet away. He thought he saw the obsidian tip of an arrow nocked on a wych elm bow, carved with an intricate _W_.

Before the darkness washed over him in calming waves and the world spun like a spinning top, he thought he saw hair made of fire and eyes that burnt like embers.

Perhaps, he thought, he imagined it.

Then the blackness pulled him under, and everything disappeared, and he was gone.

* * *

 **endnote :** I was sort of going for a Neverland-ish vibe when thinking about Ottery St. Catchpole, but it just turned into another forest scene. These forests are never-ending, heh. Anyway, tell me what you think! I love constructive criticism (weak smiling). I'm stoked for the next chapter ― _the Burrow_! Hooray.


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